Rise of a New Dawn
by Heaven's Eagle
Summary: It's nearly 2008, and the time has come for change. Screw Destiny, right in the face. This time, the stakes are in our hands. [OCs, AUish, Rated T because of Winchesters and Hunters and monsters]
1. Arrival

**Auburn, Maine. 19:14, 16****th**** December 2007**

The evening would have been dark, if it hadn't been for the city. Hot lights, in shades of sickly yellow and orange, blazed over the landscape, turning the pretty-by-day metropolis into a many-eyed beast. The city stared up at the sky, daring the night to look back – and the night shied away, keeping its many starry eyes shut tight.

It started at one end of the city, a slow rolling wave of flickering light and sparks. First a few streetlamps blew out, showering tiny buzzing asterisks onto the pavement below. The people who swarmed there, searching for pleasure or oblivion (and who could tell the difference anymore?), scattered, fleeing from the exploding lights. But then the city stuttered, and streetlamps began to sizzle and blow across the roads in a sick sort of Mexican wave, sending pedestrians running and screaming.

TVs switched themselves on or off, radios searched out new stations on their own. Then, when all of the technological failure had centred itself just off the eastern edge of the city square, a high-pitched whine manifested in the air, building upon itself until it became a shrill screech of noise, piercing and somehow alive.

The ears of those foolish enough to remain bled through their fingers, hands clamped over achieving naught. Cries and yells of that few number were almost inaudible through the strange, disembodied cry, but the sound of vibrating glass and shattering windows was not. Shards of glass rained from the buildings and the cars, and even those wise enough to flee bled from the touch of their edges.

Then, quite suddenly, it stopped.

With one final retort, all the remaining lights blew out, TVs exploding where they sat, radios hissing static. Auburn ground to a ringing halt as all its buildings darkened, and as the blackout took over and the city closed its eyes, the night finally dared to look down at it. And it saw what the city could not.

Hovering far above the tops of the darkened buildings was a shimmering twist of light, glittering invisibly. Streaks of colour shot through the ethereal, not-quite-corporeal being, and far behind it on either side, feathers extended like liquid crystal. It was surrounded by three more spills of colour and light, each slightly different, each with different coloured wings, flying with different beats, but all menacing. And all angry.

The barely-colourful knot of a creature, the one with the crystal wings, billowed inwards on itself, as if trying to escape the burning presences of the others.

And then the night heard their words, bright and ringing in the inky darkness, nothing less than painful to the city below. To the night, as it listened blissfully, they were beautiful, and utterly terrifying.

"Who are you?"

"I—I—I'm… I'm A—Aquila."

"_How did you get here_?"

"I don't—I'm not—I need—I need Castiel."

* * *

**Washington, DC. 19:14, 16****th**** December 2007**

In a place like Washington, it was the light – and not the dark – that crept. It slunk through the streets, thick and slow and sickly, sending delicate fingers into buildings, probing their windows, and exploring every alleyway. Where the corners met city filth, there were the last places left to the darkness, and there it clung to itself.

Surrounded by the capital's light, oblivious to how it licked at her skin and nibbled at her hair, she appeared. Even at this time, the streets were full of people, and when the naked form materialised on the sidewalk, they swarmed. Above them, lights flickered and hissed, and the ground cracked below her bare toes, sizzling with heat. The pedestrians crowded around her as her feet touched the ground and her pale, ice blue eyes opened, only to flinch and shut at the assault of dirty light.

And after a moment, the bravest of the onlookers stepped forward, shedding a long cloak from his shoulders. A thick blue scarf adorned his neck, and he knelt by her as she staggered, tripped. With gentle hands, the man caught her, lowered her to the ground, shrouded her in his coat.

With eyes that flashed pure in the city neons, he glanced around. "Well?" he demanded in a low baritone – and the girl cringed, cuddling down against her own form. "Someone call an ambulance," he ordered before turning back to the girl. The coat had slipped from her shoulders, and he pulled it back up. The fabric dragged across her skin, and she whimpered.

"Sorry," the man muttered. "What's your name? How did you get here?"

Eyes wide as she adjusted to the onslaught of light and colour of the city, she looked up at the man and choked on her voice. "I'm… Mimír," she managed. Her voice was strange – rough but not broken, as if from abuse. It broke in odd places, like a boy on the cusp of puberty.

As if it was unfamiliar to her.

When she heard the first siren, she jumped to her feet, flinching as they moved across the ridged concrete of the sidewalk. "Whoa, whoa," the man said, reaching out to take her shoulder. Panting now, the girl tried to move away, only to stumble again, her flushed face paling. It happened quickly, then, with the crowds pointing and muttering as humans were wont to do, and the lights flashing and sirens humming.

With a little sigh, the girl whimpered once more, muttered something incomprehensible, and staggered once more. Eyes rolling upwards, her white face went slack and she fell into the man's arms, still wrapped in his coat.

Kneeling, he lowered her back down, ensuring she was resting on the fabric and not the cold ground, keeping her head elevated, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance. The crowd watched on, ever whispering, save for one motherly woman with a head of fluffy hair who walked forward and settled by him, sparing a sideways glance. "Who is she?" the woman murmured, studying the girl's face intently.

He shrugged. "I have no idea. But she just appeared out of nowhere – we can't leave that to civilians."

She shot him a sharp look, and he gestured to the charm around her neck. It was a sigil he'd recognise anywhere, and he wore one just like it. Without a word, she nodded her approval.

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 19:14, 16****th**** December 2007**

It was quiet. That alone was why Bobby Singer heard the sharp crash, followed by a series of thumps and then, finally, a solid _thud_.

Now, Bobby wasn't a man for guessing, nor did he like to think that he could recognise certain events by sound alone. But, if he had been, he would have guessed that it sounded a lot like a body falling onto the edge of his roof, rolling down the sloped iron porch and hitting the ground. However, seeing as he wasn't a man for guessing, he selected his shotgun and cracked it, making sure it was fully loaded, before he went to investigate.

When he opened his front door and the light from his kitchen poured out, there was almost no limit to the things he was expecting. Ghost, werewolf, vampire, demon, it could have been anything. It could have been Sam or Dean fucking with him. It almost certainly could have been the teenagers that lived four miles closer to Sioux Falls than he did, trying to get shot again.

The list did have a limit though. And Bobby drew that limit at bruised and bleeding naked girls, especially of the teenage variety. _That_ he hadn't been expecting.

Moaning, the girl tried to get up, body shaking, blood seeping over otherwise pristine skin. Actually, since Bobby cared to give her a cursory inspection before helping her (because, well, sometimes demons got clever), it was surprising how clean she was. Only smudges from where she'd fallen on his roof and the ground.

She even managed to get halfway up, eyes unfocused as they turned towards the sound of him stepping out onto the porch, before she collapsed. A soft sigh later, she was sprawled out over the muddy ground, unconscious and naked as a newborn.

Muttering to himself, Bobby approached her and knelt, checking her face and pulling up her eyelids. Whoever – whatever – she was, she was genuinely passed out. Tossing the shotgun onto his porch, Bobby bundled up the random naked girl and carried her unceremoniously inside, where she passed easily through the Devils' Traps painted on his floor and ceiling, and showed no reaction to salt or holy water. Just to be sure, though, he nicked her forearm with a silver blade, to be greeted with nothing more than a new dribble of blood.

Assured now that she was just a human girl, Bobby frowned at her. She was hurt, that was for sure. Landing on someone's roof would do that to you. _How_ she'd done that was a mystery that would have to wait until she woke. For now, she needed to have her injuries cleaned up.

Oh, and clothes. Yeah, clothes would probably make a good priority.

Looking her up and down, Bobby decided that some of Karen's old clothes would probably fit. The thought of his wife caused the old ache in his chest to pulse, but he didn't react. The pain was old, familiar – almost like an annoying friend.

First, though, he tended to her injuries. The touch of the whiskey should have garnered a reaction, even unconscious, because her skin was not only clean as a newborn's but it had the same silky feel. But she was truly blacked out, and nothing made her stir. She just lay and breathed shallowly. Once her wounds were clean and the worst of them had been bound, Bobby dressed her in jeans and a loose shirt, and was glad when the task was over.


	2. Breathe

**Thank you to the ever-wonderful, masterful Beta work of Molly-Myles, without whom this chapter would be confusing. XD I mean, more so than it's deliberately meant to be... Yeah, my plotbunnies are rabid and my charnaries are no less unkind. Anyway, enjoy.**

**Dedicated to: aLoggedInReader for being awesome. ^.^**

* * *

**the Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate**

Time does not pass in Heaven. Earth revolves, a beautiful blue-green orb that can be spied from Heaven in the sight of divine eyes, and its time flickers by. But it does not touch this realm.

Even so, long has it been since the crystal-winged fledgling Aquila was brought to Heaven, and even longer since she has stirred. It is disconcerting for the angels who watch her, to see one of their own so dull, puddled in a tower room in a sprawl of almost-colour, without the pulsing starlight that usually accompanies a seraph's true form. They find it unnerving that an angel unbound by a vessel can be rendered unconscious.

It happened soon after she was taken – and they hesitate to say she has been returned to Heaven, because her wings are still crystal, fragile, and none know her Grace. She is brand new, no angel knows her. They doubt she has ever been to her rightful home before.

Now, though, pale streaks of light spread through her, like the first dawning rays would do seen from Earth, or several of the more serene heavens. The two angels guarding her shift their wings and exchange looks that cannot be truly called looks, and send spirals of their Grace through the Citadel. Moments later, when Aquila stirs again and her crystal wings shiver, another angel arrives.

"She wakes," murmurs one of the guardians, and the new angel nods. He is streaked in shiny colour, like an oil slip in the sky, pulsing slowly under the shroud of deep emerald wings. With a touch of icy Grace, he dismisses them.

"See to Castiel," he orders quietly. "He must divulge how she heard his name."

There is a flicker of ice-blue Grace and the whisper of not-entirely-incorporeal wings and the two underlings depart, tucking themselves into flight. When they are gone, the emerald-wings approaches Aquila, and she stirs once more.

Like a nebula forming, she shimmers to life, billowing outwards and stretching her fragile, uncoloured wings. The feathers rustle like wind, and he inspects them curiously. "I have never seen crystal wings besides what my own once were," he admits to her. "I do so wonder if they are as delicate as I recall."

Colours pulse and Aquila settles into a careful cloud of pale light, almost as pure—no, innocent—as her wings. "What… What do you—Where's Castiel?" she whispers, and the elder angel shuffles his wings peculiarly.

"You need not worry about him, Aquila," he rumbles. "We will enquire as to how a fledgling who has never entered Heaven's Gates knows him. For now, you must tell us how you came to be on Earth," he says gently, hovering closer, reaching out to touch her feathers. She shies away, but she is bound to the seat that stands solitary in this cell, and his hands-that-are-not-hands connect. "So tell me, Aquila. _How do you exist?_"

He twists sharply, and the crystal feathers snap under his strength as easily as mortal bones. Aquila cries out, seraphic form blistering with streaks of red and pale blue, but her true voice is contained here. The souls that Heaven harbours are far away, and angels will not interfere. She has experienced little since she burst into existence above Auburn, Maine, but already she knows the pain of torture.

Time does not exist in Heaven. Not in the way humans invented and understand it. At the mercies of the emerald-winged angel whose name is Sarakiel, she spends an eternity coming to know pain in its every facet, and understands that she is wrong. She should not be, and Castiel, the name which has always appeared in her mind, the other angel whose company she longs for so implicitly, is never coming to her because she has condemned him. And without the answers Sarakiel seeks, she too is condemned.

* * *

**Washington, DC. 12:47 17****th**** December 2007**

A light tugging woke her. It was nothing, really, merely a little sting at the crook of her elbow – but she sat upright as if the touch had been that of lightning, and stared around with terrified, ice blue eyes. A young man opened his mouth, choking on his words in shock. After a few moments of staring, she relaxed somewhat; if he had meant to hurt her, he would have done so by now.

"They said you wouldn't wake up for another six hours," he mumbled by way of explanation, casting his almond brown eyes downwards. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly, glancing up for a second. Mimír blinked at him, but she didn't answer. The sounds were starting to register in her mind, creating a ceaseless backdrop of beeps and buzzes and rapid footsteps. Outside the small white room she shared with the young man, she could hear voices.

Wincing slightly, Mimír covered one ear with a hand, only to pull at a clear tube that fed into her flesh, and flinch. "Uh… yeah," she replied, and her voice was scratchy, whispery from disuse. "How, um… Who found me?" she asked, frowning when her cadence tripped in strange places. Quietly, she cleared her throat.

The nurse looked a little bit confused, but he ignored her question and continued with his own. "You don't hurt or anything? How's your head? Can you see okay?"

Mimír stared at him for a few seconds, and then shook her head slowly. "No, I… Well, everything's a bit bright, and you're being way too loud, but I'm fine. So who found me?" It shouldn't have been so surprising to the girl that this nurse was flustered, since he had the look of an intern, but it was. When she spotted the nametag pinned to his chest (proclaiming his name and status), she just sighed quietly. "Look, Troy, you're allowed to talk to me, you know. Just because I'm a patient doesn't mean you can't."

"Um," Troy hesitated, but in the end his nervousness won out and he talked. "I guess, as long as you're okay… A couple brought you in, a man with black hair? His wife or girlfriend or whatever was short; looked like your mother?"

Stunned, Mimír processed that, frowning. Her thoughts felt slow, more sluggish than they should have been. She wasn't sure, at first, why she felt like that was wrong. "No," she said, still unsure where the certainty was coming from, but damn sure all the same. "I don't know them." Quietly, she added, "I don't know anyone."

Whatever Troy said next was lost to the girl, and she fell back onto her bed as her mind suddenly came ablaze. Thoughts and images seared through her skull. Flashes of colour and snatches of sound, the whisper of memories she hadn't known she had. It actually surprised her that it didn't hurt, all this knowledge erupting inside her, this whole other person awaking in her brain.

But when it was over, and she realised that much more time had passed than she expected, she understood it all. The room was dim, gloomy in what she soon realised was night, but when Mimír sat up and looked around, she found she could see just fine. It must be the result of eyes undamaged by use.

Mimír knew who she was, how she'd gotten there. She knew everything. Settling into the pattern of new breathing – different breathing – she hoped that the Hunter had landed ok, and wasn't hurt. A flicker of cool sorrow nestled in her chest as she thought of the angel. But there was nothing to be done – she must stay and ride out this new life, and wait for time to pass. And the only thing still confusing her was the people who had brought her in.

Moving slowly, Mimír clasped her hands, shut her eyes, and whispered a prayer: "Dear Gabriel…"

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 09:31 19****th**** December 2007**

Normally, Bobby Singer would have waited a little longer before he started to get real worried. It had only been two and a half days since the girl had crashed (quite literally) into his house and his life, and she still had a good 24 hours before she was in true danger from dehydration. He'd seen other Hunters sleep solidly for nigh on five days before, following a serious fight or injury; usually a combination of both.

Even so, he was beginning to consider calling in better qualified help. There was a short list of people in useful professions (such as cops) who had been saved by Hunters in the past, and offered their assistance should it prove necessary. Several of those people were listed as medically trained. Bobby normally would have never called in such favours unless there was no one else close enough to help the Hunter, or if a Hunter was so badly hurt that only a hospital could save them.

However, this girl was upsetting him. Bobby didn't consider himself the type of person who mothered anyone, and hell if he ever caught himself at it, but there was something not right about a teenage girl sleeping so still and so silent for so long without identifiable cause. Whoever she was, she hadn't been in a fight; her only wounds were those she had sustained falling down his roof.

In any case, if she didn't wake up soon, he would have to make use of the medical contacts that he had. Bobby didn't recognise the girl, didn't even know her name, but she was human and that alone was enough reason for him to help her. And then there was, you know, the small matter of her literally falling into his care.

First, though, he would have to redress her wounds. He hadn't touched them since that first night, in the hopes that she would wake up. The man wasn't exactly keen to undress the poor girl, especially after the mildly traumatic task of dressing her in the first place. By now, though, he knew that the bandages would need attention and so Bobby dragged a chair over, gathered the things he'd need and removed the blanket from the girl's form where she lay on his spare bed, pulling Karen's old shirt up and over her breasts to puddle around her neck.

There weren't enough lucky stars to thank that her worst injury was on her stomach and not her chest, because Bobby would have felt guilty rather than just uncomfortable had he needed to work around a stranger's breasts, let alone a _teenage_ stranger. As it was, he carefully peeled back the wad of bandages that had dried to the girl's bronze skin, wincing in sympathy when they pulled on the slowly-forming scab. Here, just along her lean side, the edge of his iron porch roof had sliced into her flesh. Bobby had doused it liberally with whiskey, so he didn't expect it to get infected, but it was worth checking all the same.

Twenty minutes later, Bobby had rebound the wound on her side, covered her torso again, and was in the process of tying a brace around her right wrist. After a while, you just got used to recognising broken bones, and while it was barely a fracture, Bobby could tell the difference. She'd have to keep it still for a while.

Finally, he wrung out a wet cloth and dabbed the cool material over her temple. She wasn't feverish – but hell, to be quite honest Bobby was just trying to get a reaction out of her. Lo and behold, the girl's eyes flickered.

Before the Hunter could react, dark chocolate brown eyes blinked open, and stared up at him blankly. There was no fear in her gaze, only confusion. "…Hi," she whispered, her voice scratchy and no more than a whisper. "Who are you?"

Eyebrow raised, but supremely glad she'd finally woken, Bobby reached for a glass of water he'd brought up with him. "Bobby Singer. Who the hell are you?"


	3. Curses

**Much thanks so Molly-Myles for her wonderful Beta work! Admittedly, she thinks I'm almost perfect, but hey, I could always work harder to prove her wrong! XD**

**I'm not entirely sure who to dedicate this chapter to, so... I'll dedicate it to all of you!**

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

Castiel flits around his… cell. This room is a cell, there is no use denying it. He does not panic, for he has committed no crime, therefore he will not be punished. Even so, he flits back and forth, from one wall to another, black wings billowing like smoke. With little else to occupy him, Castiel's mind turns towards the rumour Balthazar whispered to him, merely moments before he was summoned here.

Is it true? Is there a new angel amongst their ranks? Warm colours flicker through his form, rays of excitement and happiness. It has been too long – far too long – since a new angel was afforded to the Host. Castiel finds himself wondering to which Garrison she will be assigned, what colour her wings will become, how high she will soar. A shimmer of surprise swirls through him, spiralling under his feathers, because it has been a while since he felt enthusiastic. Every cyclical worship brings him joy, but it is a very serene joy, peaceful as long as he and all the others surrender to it.

But he recalls the last time an angel was created by Father, back when it had been commonplace to hear Him whispering to Joshua or telling Gabriel a new joke, and realises that new angels inspire this. As such, his state of mind bright, Castiel fully expects warm colours when Mathius and Eniquiel's Graces approach and the door to his cell slides open.

What he does not expect is Mathius to slip into the room like a snake and shut the door behind him, leaving Eniquiel to hover guard outside.

"Mathius?" Castiel asks quietly, hesitating opposite the lower-ranked angel, folding inwards slightly. Normally Castiel has rank over Mathius, being a Captain where as the blue-wings is a Vassal, but it suddenly becomes clear that this is not truth, presently. "Has Sorath summoned me? Would she not do so herself?"

Sorath is Castiel's Lieutenant, and she has always been kind to her Garrison, if very generous with their regular duties. But Castiel cannot think why she would ever summon him in this manner, nor send a _Vassal_ from another Garrison to attend him, nor why she should summon him in the first place. His worries are confirmed when, dark streaks twisting in his form, Mathius replies.

"No, Sorath is being informed of your arrest now."

_Arrest?_ Castiel balks, shimmering backwards, his wings shuffling uncomfortably. "Why am I under arrest? I have done no wrong," he protests, knowing even so that Mathius will not hear. Castiel bears respect towards him, but he is known for his particular cruelty.

"Castiel, Second Captain of the Fifth Garrison, you are required to answer all questions put to you, honestly and concisely." Once more, Castiel jits away, his Grace pulsing. Grey-blue expands in his form, more starlight than anything else, a mixture of nervousness and offence. What possible reason could he have to… to _lie_? How could Mathius even accuse him of such a thing? "Do you understand?"

A question. A test. "Yes," Castiel replies, relaxing his Grace, calming himself. Clearly, something has gone amiss. Sorath will confirm that Castiel's record is pure and clean, that there is no need for an arrest to be made. If he simply complies, then…

"You've heard the rumour, yes?" Castiel flutters his wings, affirming that yes, he has. "Then you are aware that a new angel has been found? She appeared on Earth, Castiel." He flutters dark plumage again, replying in the positive, but the tips extend downward in his confusion. On Earth? It is unheard of for a fledgling to be born of God's Hand anywhere but Heaven. "And do you know what else? She knew your name."

This time, Castiel slights, his Grace flashing around his contracting form. "What?" he asks, the word slipping out. He cannot help but fail this question-that-is-not-a-question, because he is so utterly unprepared for it. "How does she know my name?"

"That's exactly why you're here," Mathius says softly, and for the first time Castiel feels a flicker of doubt. Normally an interrogation such as this, concerning a new angel, would be conducted by Castiel's Lieutenant or, in severe cases, his Commander. So why is Mathius involved? An answer that Castiel dislikes comes to him quickly – because this is not a documented case. "She has already been Named, Castiel. She is called Aquila." Mathius' voice curls around the Latin, but Castiel finds a measure of solace in it. So few angels are possessed of true Latin or Hebrew names, but rather Enochian words that have been twisted into mortal languages.

"I have never met her," Castiel insists quietly, and it is only when Mathius approaches him and his nervousness rises that he realises he has come to a rest in a corner of the cell. "There is no reason for her to know of me."

It is a great sin, for an angel (particularly one ranked lower than a Commander) to imprint themselves upon a fledgling before they have been assigned their Garrison and their Lieutenant and Commander and ultimate Archangel. Of course, now, all Garrisons answer ultimately to Michael, but tradition dictates that in name, at least, another of the archangels can be chosen.

But Castiel has not done such a thing, and with a flawless record, his word should be enough to give cause for Sorath's presence, at the very least. Instead, Mathius ignores him and floats closer, so close that Castiel is trapped.

His Grace flutters in a way that is unfamiliar, and Castiel's wings jit in response. "But she does. She knows your name, so you must be lying. No fledgling is born on Earth," he adds darkly, reaching out towards Castiel's wings. Grace flares and Castiel feels it singe Mathius for a moment before he reins it in – he cannot be blamed for the reaction. Wings are sacred things; for Mathius to take it upon himself to touch Castiel's unbidden is a sin in and of itself. In all his life, Castiel has allowed only Balthazar and Inias to touch his wings.

Mathius ignores the warning that Castiel cannot help, and he swathes his both-corporeal-and-not hand in Castiel's black feathers.

Without words, Castiel produces a low, ringing sound. For an angel, it is akin to the hiss of an angry feline. "What do you think you're doing?" he demands quietly, because arrest or not, Castiel outranks Mathius and the current violation overrides his arrest regardless.

Mathius looks up at Castiel and his form shivers, sharp yellow splitting it. Pale blue wings spread; he tightens his grip on Castiel's secondary feathers. "I've been tasked to make you talk. And you will talk," he promises, his Grace swelling.

Pain courses through him and Castiel cannot help but give a cry of wordless Enochian, the foreign Grace burning from Mathius' form, into his wings, and straight into his own Grace. The contact is unfamiliar and scorching, as if Mathius has summoned Hell's fire into the cell. Castiel has heard tales of forced flow before, and he is very well aware that Heaven's hospitality can be every bit as welcoming as Hell's, but he has never experienced this torture before.

Quickly, flowers of hot red blooming throughout his form, Mathius places another hand-that-is-not-quite-a-hand on Castiel's other wing, and opens his Grace there too. The forced flow of another's Grace cannot be withstood, even by Heaven's most steadfast warrior, but Castiel does not have the answers that Mathius seeks.

He does not know why.

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 10:02, 19th December 2007.**

The girl looked up at him, and Bobby knew the dull blink all too well. "Hey, you hearin' me?" he demanded, snapping his fingers over her face. "I asked your name, girly."

Once more, she blinked brown eyes, but after a moment she tried to sit up. Bobby tugged lightly on her arm, making her stay down, and continued his work on her wrist. She could answer in her own sweet fucking time then. It wasn't as if Bobby had just spent three days looking after her or anything. Absently, he handed her the glass of water to drink, in hopes it would soothe her throat.

"Uh…" she whispered, her voice all air and no real sound. "I'm… I'm… um… Catina," she finally said, her face lighting up. There was still no substance to her words, but at least she was responding now.

"Catina. Got a last name?" Bobby grunted, finishing her brace. "And don't move that hand!" he scolded her when she tried to push herself into a sitting position once more. Cowed, Catina cradled her right wrist to her chest and sat up using her left.

After a moment, Catina turned those liquid brown eyes downward. "No," she murmured morosely. "I don't think I do have a last name." A very distinct accent clipped her syllables, each word pronounced easily but almost excessively accurately. Bobby had never heard the damn thing before, so he couldn't place where it was from.

The lack of a last name wasn't what surprised him. Being in the Hunter business was jading, to say the least – strangers who lacked names were nothing new. But he'd never heard anyone sound so put out by the fact, as if she couldn't _remember_.

"Well, we'll just have ta find you one, then," he said, turning away from her. "Stay here 'til you feel up ta breakfast," he added before making his way down the stairs.

Alright, so it was only ten o'clock in the freaking morning – so what? Bobby was a Hunter, and Hunter's Helper was welcome anytime. He had half a glass down by the time he heard Catina on the stairs, and the remainder before she shuffled into the living room, Karen's clothes draped around her slim body. Her arms were crossed over her ribs, her chin ducked apologetically.

Bobby looked over his desk, gently placing his glass in the wood. "Got a last name yet, girly?" he asked, though he wasn't trying to be intrusive. With a stranger who didn't even have a full name, there wasn't much else to make conversation with.

Catina shook her dark head, auburn curls bouncing. "I don't know it. Should I give myself one?" she asked, and to be honest, Bobby was surprised by the genuine curiosity of her question. Maybe she really didn't know. Amnesia was possible, considering the fall she'd taken…

"If that's how you wanna play it. You gotta be hungry by now," the grizzled Hunter changed the subject, gesturing towards the kitchen. "There's a bit of pie in the fridge, if you want it."

Nodding slightly, Catina shuffled towards the kitchen, barely taking her feet off the floor. It was strange behaviour, but if she did have amnesia, then she had to be frightened. Bobby couldn't really blame her for her closed off behaviour. She seemed to know her way around a kitchen well enough, though, since she easily located the pie and a fork and started to nibble, edging her way back to the living room.

"What's that?" she asked shyly, glancing over towards Bobby's old radio. It was humming this morning, filling the house with the quiet buzz of bad seventies music.

"You mean the radio?" Bobby replied flatly, raising his eyebrow again. "It plays music. Turn it off if you want – this is a rubbish song anyway."

Thoughtfully, Catina stood in the little space between rooms that wasn't quite kitchen or lounge, and then stepping inside, chewing. "A song… Can that be my last name?" she asked, eyes hopeful. "I like that word."

"Song." It wasn't a question. This time, Bobby truly was shocked; she didn't know what a song was? "Well, yeah, if you want," he addressed her question. Catina Song. It didn't have such an awful ring to it, after all. "Sit down, Catina," he said, gesturing again – this time towards the beat up old sofa. She approached it well enough, but just before sitting down, the girl gave it a worried look.

Pleasant surprise filled her face when she found that it was soft.

Leaning on his elbows, Bobby effected eye contact with her, and she lowered her next little bite of pie in confusion. "Listen, do you know where you came from?" he asked her. "I'd name someplace, but I don't recognise that accent of yours."

Catina opened her mouth to reply, hesitated, and shut it again. Sadly, she ate some more pie, shaking her head. "I dunno," she mumbled around the food. "I don't think I came from anywhere."

Bobby sighed. "Don't that figure?" he muttered to himself, but he leaned back and continued reading his book. It was rather an interesting one – a new text he'd picked up over the weekend, about old werewolves. Apparently, some higher-up-the-food-chain dogs could control themselves when they transformed. Or so this legend went. There was a lot of crap about werewolves out there.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and quiet chewing, Catina licked her lips and drew a deliberate breath. "What are you reading?" she asked curiously, and when Bobby glanced over, a small, hopeful smile played at the corner of her mouth.

"It's about werewolves," he said grimly, though her smile when he answered was very warm. He could almost feel the damn thing from here. "But don't ask me wh—"

A soft ring indicated Catina had dropped her fork onto the plate. "You have to kill werewolves with silver," she piped up, her voice solid with confidence, but her expression open and still so damned hopeful.


	4. Downwards

**Well, I guess it's about time I introduce this properly... Uh, by now you already know the OCs, and that this takes place just nearing the end of season three and will continue onwards... So yeah. Half the credit for this goes to one Clockwork Silver - my Twin who practically wrote half the plot for this.**

**Thanks to Molly-Myles for being incredible as always and Betaing this a lot faster than I get around to it. Show her some love!**

**Dedicated to nicitta, because she's wonderful and patient and is getting over a bug and I love her. =^.^=**

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 10:46 19****th**** December 2007**

For a few moments, Bobby stared at her, wondering what the hell had happened to his sarcastic remarks. But Catina wasn't done – she kept smiling her hopeful little smile and continued with her lecture. "Usually a silver dagger to the heart works best, but a silver bullet will do just fine – and it's better if you don't want to get close anyway. I'm not sure if cutting their heads off works, but I guess if you did it with a silver blade, it might be okay…"

She trailed off, seeming to realise that she was making Bobby uncomfortable. The old Hunter had nothing to say. What could he say to that? If she had amnesia, how the hell did she know anything about werewolves? When he still didn't say anything, Catina's face fell, worry creasing her smooth bronze skin. "Mr Singer?" she said quietly. "I'm sorry, did I… Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Bobby blurted, putting too much emphasis on the word; Catina flinched, but she didn't run away. Yet. "How in the name of all things good and holy did you know that, girl?" he demanded, leaning back in his chair.

She blinked. "Um… well, werewolves, and… I just…" Slowly, she blinked again, and looked down. "I don't… I don't know. I just do. Like how I know about ghosts, to use iron against them, and line the doors and windows with salt – or if they're already inside, stay within a ring of salt… And to get rid of them you have to burn their bones, or whatever else they're attached to…"

As she listed off the absolutely correct things to do about ghosts, her dark eyes got ever wider, and eventually she looked up at Bobby with a spark of panic in her face. In Bobby's defence, he didn't immediately throw her out; she had passed all his tests, dammit, she _had_ to be human. But, and here was the thing, she couldn't be a Hunter. So what if she hadn't even known her last name and could therefore have any background – he'd seen her naked, though it was an image he'd rather forget, and she had no scars. No evidence of any fighting – no evidence of any _life_. Even if she'd lost her memory, her body didn't lie. Catina Song was not a Hunter, nor had she ever been.

So then how did she know all this?

When Bobby's only reaction was to study her, Catina's panic flickered into fear, and she curled up on the couch, knees drawn under her chin. Like liquid diamonds, her eyes filmed with tears, trickling down her cheeks.

"Wendigo," Bobby said, his voice calm and steady, cutting into the teenager's alarm.

Almost automatically, she took a breath and replied. "They're cannibals who over-indulged and became monsters. Flare guns are the best way of dealing with them, but flamethrowers are good too. Otherwise, you better run your ass away." Quietly, she whimpered to herself and drew her knees in tighter. "Mr Singer? How- what's happening to…" Here she paused, and Bobby waited, wondering if she'd remembered something.

"Mr Singer…?" Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the sounds of Bobby's mind spinning. If she hadn't been a Hunter, then had she been a historian of some sort? She was way too young to be anything but a student, but maybe a mythology major – perhaps her professor had been a retired Hunter?

A silly thought. There was only one way to retire from Hunting, and a university professor wasn't it. For them, the only way out was down.

His musings were broken when slender arms wrapped around his neck. He nearly fought back, because anything that wanted to grab him by the neck was something that needed to die, but he held off because it was Catina, trembling, hugging him. "Mr Singer?" she whispered once more. "Who… Who am I?"

* * *

**Tanami Desert, Australia. 12:37 20****th**** December 2007**

In a way, she probably deserved it, what with threatening him and all. But did he have to watch her practice from his personal hammock, shaded by a cute girl with a large palm frond, drinking whatever it was he was drinking? Probably fizzy, if she knew him, and Mimír knew him, or something equally sugary to go along with his chocolate mud cake. Really though, was it absolutely necessary to taunt her like that?

Oh, there went those fingers, snapping the world's most expensive lollipop into his hands.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" Loki called out, glancing up at his conjured minion with his smile in place. She returned the flirty glance, with a wiggle of her hips – but Loki had already looked away, raising his glass in Mimír's direction.

Quite honestly, Mimír wasn't sure what she was to him. Was she his subject, his pupil – was she his _victim_? Technically speaking, as the Trickster god, did that make her his, Chuck forbid, **_daughter_**? Then again, it didn't really matter.

"It's the middle of the day!" she cried, turning to glare at the archangel-turned-pagan. "In the middle of a freaking desert‼" She hadn't meant to get so shrill, but it was a desert and she was tired and sweaty and it was so bloody hot that she just couldn't help herself. "Just _smite_ me already!"

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Gabriel appeared in front of her, smirking. She may see him first and foremost as Loki, pagan god, but right then he was getting his angel on. Skittering backwards, Mimír crouched down, throwing her hands over her head. The desert disappeared – there was no scalding wind against her skin, and it wasn't blowing sand into her eyes or mouth. Her head filled with grey static, terror flooding her body with adrenalin. A strangled, "Eeep!" left her mouth, and with a shimmer reminiscent of the heat shimmering off the desert, a plain steel shield appeared between her and him.

She didn't see the shield. Just the blinding white terror behind her closed eyes. "Don't smite me," she whimpered, trembling.

If someone had told her a week ago that she'd be reduced to begging by just the idea of angel-smiting, she would have laughed. Then she'd threatened Gabriel the archangel. If there was anything that could drive her insane now, it was the threat of being angel-smote.

"Well, it _is_ my easiest option," Loki mused, but she heard the flutter of wings that indicated he'd gone back to his hammock. "But I haven't been so entertained in decades!" Laughing, he snapped his fingers, summoning something else into existence, and Mimír dared to look up. Only then did she notice the shield before her.

Loki far enough away to negate any possible activities of the smiting variety, Mimír jumped to her feet and shreed in triumph. "I did it‼" she yelped, grinning brightly. This time when she looked at Loki, his smirk felt a bit more friendly – although that was probably just her own excitement. Still bouncing in place, Mimír concentrated on the shield, took a deep breath, and tried to feel the power flowing through her body, flicking her fingers towards the shield.

On the second try, it shimmered and vanished.

Loki just rolled his eyes, still smirking, and continued munching on the sour gummy bears that were so delightful, but the young girl didn't care. Now that she knew she really could create things out of thin air, just like any real Trickster, Mimír was determined to master herself.

* * *

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota. 23:52 27****th**** December 2007**

"Wake up, Sammy." The words were spoken softly, accompanied by a gentle hand. From where he dozed against the passenger-side window, Sam Winchester blinked open hazy eyes and looked around slowly. They were not in danger – those wake-up calls were never so kind, always full of shouting and gunfire.

The Impala was idling quietly, the hood just barely under a concrete canopy, and blazing neons blinded him from every side. "Where are we?" he asked, his face scrunching to dull the pain of the lights. Beside him, Dean killed the engine and shrugged, opening his door.

"Sioux Falls. We'll make Bobby's tomorrow," he added. "I'm beat." Sam let his brother lead the way into the motel reception (after meticulously ensuring that the car was locked, of course) and frowned, his thoughts slowly quickening. Sixty miles back, Sam had let himself shift into snoozing position, assuming Dean would wake him when they got to Bobby's – or when he was tired enough to let Sam drive the rest of the way.

Yawning slightly, the younger Winchester tapped the elder on the shoulder, following to their room. "Why didn't you just let me drive the rest of the way? It's only four miles." Somewhat incredulous – four miles was nothing. They'd covered far more distance in half the time it had taken them to get _here_. But Dean just shrugged, dropping his bag on the ground and claimed the bed closest to the door, as he always did. It was almost a ritual, one that Sam had accepted years and years ago, even before he'd known why they practically lived in motels. Dean was always closest to the door, to the windows – Dean was the first in danger should something find them, the first one on the line.

Daddy's perfect little soldier.

Of the many things that John's upbringing had imparted, this was the least of Sam's concern. It wasn't as if three feet made much of a difference, or as if Sam didn't sleep with a hunting knife under his pillow. Besides, there were far worse things that John had done to Dean.

Voice muffled, Dean waved a hand in the air dismissively. "I rang him while you were down," he said, and Sam frowned. It was bad enough that his brother barely watched the road when he was driving – did he have to use his cell too? "He said not to show up in the middle of the night or we'd startle her." There was a large dose of amusement in Dean's tone now, and he sat up to grin at Sam, green eyes glittering. "Said we should come in the morning."

Her? "So what, you think he's got a girl over?" Sam shot back, voice working automatically while he processed that idea. It wasn't so far out there – aside from, of course, that Bobby was an old, reclusive drunkard in the eyes of ignorant society. Hunters knew better, but Hunters were few and far between. So it was possible that some lady had taken a shine to him, and still possible that she'd agreed to stay with him at the scrap yard for…

Sam swiped both hands down his face, grimacing in horror. "Thanks for that, Dean," he muttered sarcastically, walking to his bed and dropping the bag slung over his shoulder. "Really needed that. I'm gonna see if I can wash that image from my mind," he added, stalking to the bathroom. Dean just snickered behind him, and when Sam shut the door with perhaps a little more force than necessary, he broke into grating peals of laughter.

Hidden now, Sam smiled to himself slightly. He wasn't lying – the image of Bobby with a girl (something he hadn't wanted to think about and was now desperately trying not to) was an image he needed to be rid of, right the hell now, but perhaps he'd stressed his reaction just a tiny bit.

It was nice to hear Dean laugh.

Stripping down, Sam got the shower working with relative ease and stepped in, letting the scalding water pour down his back. To Sam's chagrin, his plan worked too well – the water was too hot (though he knew that it wasn't half as boiling as Dean liked it), and it made him think of flames. That thought led naturally on to Hell, and Sam forgot all about Bobby and his girl.

Their year was almost up, and they had nothing. Zip. Zero. Dean refused to even discuss the matter, cutting him down with short, sharp rebuttals and vague insults that to Sam only revealed his own fear. Sam couldn't even count the number of times he'd tried to bring it up. Most of the time, Dean acted like he didn't even know he was going to Hell. His brother's worry manifested itself in little things, though – like teaching Sam how to take care of the Impala, or letting him drive without constant supervision. Things like letting Sam take point on Hunts, or letting him take Ruby's knife.

Only through the little things, like how he'd switched their beds around when Sam came silently out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and was sleeping on the covers, fully clothed. He hadn't even taken off his boots.

For a moment, Sam just stood there, frozen and staring at his brother. Dean was slowly giving over all the danger to Sam, slowly drawing away. He'd never say anything, but things like this kept happening. And for all that Dean's babying irritated him, Sam found himself floundering now that it was absent. He was capable of taking care of himself – he'd prove that to Dean someday. But that Dean was withdrawing only because he had no choice, because he wouldn't even _fight_…

The tiny noise Sam made was too loud, and he slipped back into the bathroom before Dean could lift his head, before Dean could question him. He slid the lock into place and leaned against the door, gritting his teeth.

He remembered the pain of that dagger going into his back. The liquid flames that had exploded in his body and the horrifying nausea that had come with them. It had made the fading black a relief, even though the last sound he'd heard had been Dean crying. He couldn't remember anything after that, not until he woke up, but he had a feeling something had happened. There was a sense of weight in those memories, as if something dark and hidden was sleeping there.

Compared to the clenching of his chest and belly now, Sam would have preferred the knife. He could take care of himself, he knew he could – but he couldn't do it without his brother. It wasn't _worth_ taking care of himself if Dean wasn't there to make sure he did.

Dean was the only family Sam had left.

Despite everything he'd tried, Sam wasn't able to save him. You couldn't help someone who didn't want to be saved. And it was just so _wrong_, because Sam could see that Hell scared Dean, he could _see_ that he was afraid. But Dean would never admit it because to Dean, any price was worth Sam's life. Why was it so hard for him to believe that the feeling was mutual? Sometimes Sam wondered just what Dad had done to Dean, all those years he hadn't known. What was it that John had said to the young Dean Winchester that made this older version value himself so little?

Sometimes, Sam got very angry with their father.

There was a knock on the door. "Sammy?" came Dean's voice, strained with forced evenness. "You okay?"

Sam held his breath, biting the inside of his bottom lip. No matter how upset he found himself, no matter the pain in his chest, he would not cry. Not here. Not now. Not when Dean would hear him so easily. It wasn't fair that on top of everything, Dean should have to hear hard evidence of how bad Sam really was. Thus far, the younger Hunter had managed to keep Dean relatively in the dark, but he wasn't handling it at all. If Dean had to go to Hell knowing how bad a state he'd left Sam in, it would be all the worse.

Taking a slow breath, Sam forced his voice to steady and replied, "Uh, yeah—yeah, I'm fine, Dean. Just… gotta brush my teeth." The words were fumbled in his haste, spat so that Sam had a prayer of maintaining his even tone. Even so, the tremble was too obvious, and Sam heard a telltale moment of silence before Dean said anything.

"Alright, Sammy." There was the sound of footsteps, and a heavy thud before Sam heard the springs of one mattress protest Dean's weight.

Just for show, Sam twisted the cold faucet, but one glance around the room and he realised the huge flaw in his lie: the little bag that carried his toothbrush and paste was still in the main room, beside his bed. With eyes as trained as theirs, there was no way that Dean hadn't seen it. And yet he'd let Sam get away with his fib. That alone was just more proof that his big brother was more afraid than he'd ever admit, that he knew Sam wasn't dealing.

Biting his tongue, Sam gripped the sides of the sink and bowed his head, scrunching his eyes shut. Sure, he'd always been considered the emotional Winchester – but that was no difficult feat when compared to his family. That Dean just walked away from Sam's miniature breakdown made everything worse – and at the same time, kept everything the same.

Sam knew that Dean was afraid, and Dean knew that he knew, but neither would say anything about it. Dean knew Sam wasn't dealing and Sam knew that _he_ knew, but again, nobody would mention it. Somehow, talking about it would make their problems so much worse; make them tangible.

Minutes later, Sam walked out of the bathroom with a steady pace and blank expression, raising an eyebrow at Dean silently. As if they'd shared a signal, Dean yawned, slipped under his duvet and rolled over to go to sleep.

And nobody mentioned that for the second time that night, Dean had switched their beds.


	5. Evoke

**Hello again. That was fast, wasn't it? XD Anyway, minor hiccups with this chapter, nothing that couldn't be ironed out. Make sure you thank Clockwork Silver for helping me with this shit.**

**All the loves to Molly-Myles for Betaing this! Because she is amazing.**

**I'm not sure anyone will be bothered enough, but I do have an actual explanation about how the angels all act when I write them - as in, not emotionless robots. I have legitimate head!canon that explains this, so if anyone is too irritated by it, shoot me a Review or PM and I'll explain it to you.**

**Otherwise, onwards and upwards!**

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 09:17 28****th**** December 2007**

Dreams were strange. They felt weird, almost too real – when she was in a dream, everything made sense, and she knew who everybody was and how she knew them. When Catina was in a dream, _she_ made sense. The feeling was altogether unfamiliar, and it made her upset. Not just because she wasn't comfortable with it, but because she knew that she _should_ be.

All things considered, she was rather grateful when the snarl of an engine woke her up. Sitting bolt upright in the spare bed that Mr Singer had lent her, Catina looked around, rubbing her eyes. "Mr Singer?" she called out. It was easy being awake as long as she didn't think too hard about it. She knew what things were when Mr Singer talked about them, as long as it wasn't something abstract like music or art, she knew how to speak and what words meant; she was even pretty good at math. And of course, she knew all about most every supernatural creature there was.

Honestly, it had surprised her when Mr Singer had slowly explained that he was a Hunter to her, as if she wouldn't believe him. In the end, it hadn't been necessary – Catina knew what Hunters were, too. She even knew about angels, though Mr Singer had just raised his eyebrow at her when she'd mentioned that one, like he didn't believe her.

"Mornin', Catina!" his gruff voice responded from downstairs. "Come down and meet the boys!"

The boys… Catina felt like that should mean something to her. But it was like the things she didn't know, like her last name or where she came from or what she'd been doing before she'd crash-landed on Mr Singer's roof. When she tried to think of why it was important, her mind filled with white fluff, thick and impossible to breathe through. A spike of panic entered her, just as it did every time she encountered the white wall in her mind, and she quickly thought about demons.

_—Human souls tormented and twisted beyond recognition.  
—Appear as back smoke to the mortal eye, able to fly without a host but not for extended periods of time.  
—Capable of possessing any human against their will, possibly animals. Angels and possibly other supernatural beings are immune.  
—The Winchesters are immune due to anti-demonic ink tattooed on their chests.  
—Demons can be killed with a special demonblade, an angelblade, a demonic grenade of unknown recipe and can be smote by angels.  
—By way of eight hourly doses of purified, human blood and an altered exorcism, a demon can be 'cured'._

The knowledge sliced through her thoughts, piercing the white fluff with razor sharp clarity. It was like little blades, flickering with pictures. Each bulletpoint listed in her head calmed her, brought a sense of serenity. Catina didn't know who she was – but she was supposed to be here, to know these things. She was meant to help them.

As she yawned and got out of bed, selecting an outfit from the small collection of clothes that Mr Singer had given her, Catina mused on one particular point in her knowledge of demons. She didn't know who the Winchesters were, but she knew they were important. They appeared in more than one of the daggers scattered around her mind, flashing images.

Whoever they were, they were going to save the world.

Happy with her selection of pale blue stretch pants (tied off around her slim hips with a rainbow scarf knitted from feather-wool) and a loose white singlet, Catina made her way downstairs, unsurprised to find Mr Singer seated at his desk. It was the place where he spent most of his time.

"Who are the boys?" she asked shyly, edging around so she could hide behind her saviour. Maybe they would like her or maybe they wouldn't, but Mr Singer liked her, so he wouldn't let anything happen to her. It was thanks to him that her side didn't even hurt anymore, and she was allowed to use her wrist for things now, albeit gently.

Mr Singer laughed. Well, the noise was too grizzled to really be called a laugh, but Catina knew it by now. She liked it when Mr Singer laughed – there seemed to be rather too much sorrow in his steely blue-grey eyes. "Don't you worry, girl," he said, flipping a page in his book. (It was one about rugarus today. Catina wasn't particularly fond of rugarus – they always had sad stories). "Them boys'll take to ya easy." Over his shoulder, Mr Singer spared her a grin. "Sam is real good with computers – better'n me. If ya can be found, he'll find ya."

"Bobby!" came the voice, deafening in the silence that came with the death of the engine. "Are you gonna tell us who the girl is?" said the same voice, full of amusement. Quietly, Catina smiled to herself; amusement was better than sadness.

There was a muffled slap. "Dean! Ignore him, Bobby," a second voice said, much softer than the first. Well, perhaps softer wasn't the right word. It was… kinder.

Two men came around the corner and Catina shifted uncomfortably, clenching one hand in Mr Singer's shirt. If he didn't like it, he didn't show it. Of the two, Catina decided she was more afraid of the shorter one. Not to be misleading – the taller one was a monster, his very size imposing, and she had no doubt that he could destroy her in a fight without breaking a sweat. But he stood kind of small, as if he was trying his best _not_ to be intimidating; the shorter one did not. _He_ stood with his back straight and his green eyes hot, ready to take on anything. The cocky grin on his face did nothing to abate that aura, and Catina swallowed nervously, edging closer to Mr Singer. He'd said they'd like her, right?

"Er… She's a bit young for you, isn't she?" the tall one said, and Catina knew she'd been right in her initial judgement – the nice voice belonged to him.

The shorter one raised an eyebrow at her, grin slowly fading. A million things raced through his eyes. "Picking up strays now, Bobby?" he said offhandedly, strolling to the couch and dropping himself down on it. There was a kind of grace to the motion, in the manner he just didn't seem to care how he got from standing to sprawled, only that he did.

Mr Singer stood up, but he didn't manage to break Catina's hold on his shirt. Tossing her an exasperated look, he nevertheless let her keep on clinging, leading her over to the tall one. "She landed on my damned roof, ya idjits. I don't wanna _know_ what ya kids were thinkin'." Ignoring the one who'd laid out over the couch, Mr Singer looked between Catina and the man with the kind voice. "Sam, this's Catina. Catina, Sam. Now git your hands off my shirt."

Catina complied immediately, drawing her arms into her chest. "Hey, Catina," Sam said with a smile, holding his hand out. "Did Bobby say you landed on his roof?" he added with a bit of confusion.

Nodding slightly, Catina hesitantly placed her hand in Sam's, not knowing what to expect. His skin was warm, roughly calloused by a lifetime of activity, but his grip was light and cautious. After just a single shake, he released her, but Catina met his hazel eyes and smiled slightly. There was pain in that gaze, but also infinite kindness.

"Yes," she whispered. "I don't know how it happened, but Mr Singer helped me get better." She got a raised eyebrow for her comment, but also a little chuckle, so she took it as a win.

Sam looked at Mr Singer over her shoulder. "'Mr Singer'?" he quoted, the beginnings of a grin curling his lips.

Catina's host shrugged. "What do ya want from me, a frigging handbook? She fell onto my fucking roof, we're lucky she's not just dead!" The curse word was new to Catina, catching her off guard. With a little start, she turned on the spot and watched Mr Singer for a few moments, contemplating the sound. Obviously it had a suffix, but take that off and she knew the original word. She'd never heard it before, but Catina felt that it carried some significance.

"Fuck," she repeated before more conversation could take place, and then she smiled. It was satisfying, in some intangible way. Just once more, "Fuck!" while they were all staring at her, and she giggled to herself. Yes, Catina liked that word.

Sam was the first one to say something. "Uh… something you're not telling us, Bobby?"

"Oh yeah," Mr Singer said, his syllables clipped with sarcasm. "She doesn't know who she is."

* * *

**Phoenix, Arizona. 13:24 28****th**** December 2007**

The heat was only slightly more bearable in winter. Mimír was accustomed to a much cooler climate than Phoenix (_Huh, maybe that's why it's called Phoenix – how did I never think of that before?_) and the ridiculously high temperature was killing her. It was bad enough they'd been in a desert for the entirety of her training.

Thankfully, she _was_ a trained Trickster now, and she could summon ice cream out of thin air. Eating her giant Earth-shaped sundae (_Yes, Australia was delicious thank you, and very fun to wipe off the map_), she spared Loki a look. She should probably thank him for taking the trouble to fly/teleport her back to America, but then again… It was Loki. Instead she nodded to him and took a bite out of Alaska.

"You won't be calling, then," Loki smirked at her, chewing on a replica of the world's most expensive lollipop. If that was going to be a thing, then Mimír was going to have to get her own, even though she'd never really liked lollipops _too_ much… Well, the idea had her drooling now. It had to be the Trickster metabolism.

Mimír shrugged, licking off the surface of the Pacific Ocean. "Not until I need your help," she replied, ice blue eyes sparkling deviously.

Loki tutted. "Now, now, that wasn't part of the deal."

"I don't recall making a deal," Mimír countered, licking Europe into oblivion. "I remember asking you to train me. Then I remember threatening you if you didn't come when I pray," she added perhaps too cheekily, but damn, she had power over the pagan god Loki, and it felt _good_. "So, you know. If I need you, I'll pray, and if you don't show up…"

Surprising her (although she really should have known better), Loki laughed and took a step closer, tilting his head slightly. "Well, it really was fun, but if you're going to be a problem—"

Backpedalling franticly, Mimír skittered away from her mentor/god/king/father/whatever-he-was, her sundae slipping from her fingers. The _smash_ as the glass hit the ground and shattered attracted a couple of glances, but the evidence vanished soon thereafter and nobody bothered to get any closer to the man with the giant lollipop. "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! Just don't smite me! I won't pray to you! I promise!"

Laughing again, Loki petted her snowy head. "There's a Trickster. Have fun!"

"Wait!" Mimír squeaked, and Loki paused long enough to raise an eyebrow. "What if somebody tries to make me talk?"

Giving a long-suffering sigh, Loki threw his hands in the air. "What, am I god of everything now? Don't talk, dummy." With a flutter of wings, he vanished, leaving Mimír alone in the middle of Phoenix. She sighed to herself, relaxing now that all threat of angel-smiting was gone, and looked up at the sky.

Right now, her angel would be suffering. Both of them, if she was any good at predictions. Every part of her wished that she could get up there, help her angel somehow. Or maybe just the other one; she'd be satisfied with the other one, if not happy.

But she couldn't. They'd all taken life as they would and now they had to ride it out. Mimír looked at her hands, wishing that it didn't have to be this way. It wasn't fair that her angel had to suffer like this, not for so long or at such experienced hands. Ok, so sure, the Trickster wasn't entirely sure what was happening up there, but she knew it wouldn't be good. At least, when her angel was finally sent down to Earth, she would find her. Assuming of course, she lived that long.

Shaking her head, Mimír began to walk. That kind of thinking was bad. Her angel would survive; of course. Before that, she could do nothing for her friend. Not that one, at any rate. Instead, she would have to do something that _would_ help – so, repressing the urge to pray, Mimír began searching for a bus stop, and a bus heading for South Dakota.

Since she could not reach her angel, Mimír would just have to check up on her Hunter.

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

The threat of pain is very near, but it will not come. Not yet. Hovering close by, Mathius flares his Grace in protest, but immediately he is beaten down by a scorching wave of power – another Grace surges through the cell and Mathius folds his wings, defeated.

"How dare you arrest my Captain without informing me?‼" Sorath rages, her sunset-orange wings seeming to fill the whole room with her indignant flapping. Her true form is bubbling out of its normally-sleek shape, abandoning the appearance of sunlight for that of flames. Hot reds and dangerous oranges flicker through her form, and Mathius jits back from the burn of her furious Grace. "How dare you – a _Vassal_ – interrogate _my Captain_ using such methods? _Who authorised this_?" she seethes, flitting closer to the cowering blue-wings.

The anger of a Lieutenant overrides all his former confidence, and Mathius does not answer. Sorath, like all who share her rank, has been proven one of Heaven's most loyal – but her emotion is something to behold. Castiel slights sideways, allowing her to come between him and his interrogator. Never before has he been on the receiving end of Sorath's wrath, and now he understands that he does not want to be.

Small, wings wrapped around him, Mathius remains silent. It is clear to Castiel that he has been ordered to reveal nothing by somebody who holds rank on him – and somebody who holds his respect. Of all the angels it could be, the one name that Castiel could believe this act of subterfuge of and who fulfils those requirements is Sarakiel; Mathius' Captain.

There is a small whisper of Grace from behind Sorath, and Eniquiel flutters her pale rose-pink wings nervously. "We were ordered to apprehend and question Castiel by Sarakiel," she says quietly, keeping her attention turned deliberately away from her Garrison-mate. "Concerning Aquila," she adds, because being unclear when an angry Sorath is concerned is such a bad idea that it is infamous.

"Eniquiel," Mathius hisses, but Sorath silences him with a burst of her Grace; he balks, scorched by the angel of the sun.

Her form glowing with power, Sorath flares her wings. "You will both remain here. _Am I understood?_" Eniquiel dips her wings in affirmative for both her and her partner – Mathius dares not respond, but Castiel knows he will also dare not disobey. He broke protocol against a higher rank angel because another angel of equal rank ordered it, but he will not go against the commands of a Lieutenant. Particularly not Sorath, and especially not an angry Sorath. There is not one angel in Heaven who has not heard tale of Sorath's ire.

Well. Perhaps there is _one_.

It is silently understood that Castiel will follow his direct superior, and so when Sorath swoops out of the cell he floats after her, wary of exercising his wings. They are still painful to move, singed by the touch of Mathius' Grace.

Once the cell door is bolted shut behind them, enforced by a flicker of Sorath's Grace, she turns to Castiel and inspects him. "Will you recover, Castiel?" she asks gently, her form filling with soft yellows. Just as famed as her righteous anger is Sorath's protectiveness; it has long been considered unwise to beleaguer any in her charge, her Captains primarily. Castiel considers himself lucky to serve at her command.

"I believe I will," he replies, shuffling his inky wings. His entire form jits at the movement, the hot pain of injured Grace awakening.

Taking care not to brush his feathers, Sorath touches the tip of one sunstone wing to Castiel, and he feels cool, soothing Grace wash over him. It is not like how Mathius touched him – Sorath's Grace flows over Castiel, healing as it goes, rather than perforating him. "You will now," his Lieutenant affirms, before flying leisurely down the corridor. "If you do not wish to confront Sarakiel, I advise you fly to the foyer and await me there," she says as she leaves.

Castiel does not wish to meet Sarakiel. He has never gotten along very well with that particular brother, and if his far more powerful sister plans an altercation then he wants no part in it. If he is not present, then he cannot be blamed for it. And under the circumstances, he believes that Sorath is much better equipped to quell the situation than he.

Despite his decision, Castiel does not reach the foyer. Three levels down, he is distracted by a new and unfamiliar Grace, and he pauses to adjust to the feel of it. It confuses him, for a short period of time, the appearance of this strange Grace. It is sharp, like strong wind, but it also bears a sleekness to it that reminds him of Naya'il. That sister always flaunts a fondness of spectacular aerial displays that put even the most advanced mortals to shame.

Mere moments before he decides to investigate, the realisation comes to him; Aquila, the fledgling.

In light of what he has been accused of, Castiel knows that he cannot let the new angel see him. She cannot meet him or feel his Grace. There must be no contact between them, so that he cannot be found to be lying; she cannot know him. He has not imprinted himself on her – he would not. Sin is to be avoided at all costs, wherever possible.

Without hesitation, Castiel flies in the other direction, making a note to thank Sorath at a later time for her healing Grace. Weaving through corridors and the occasional angel, Castiel does not stop until a very familiar Grace touches him. Hovering out of the way, he waits, and soon enough a brother much closer than most comes into view.

"Castiel?" Inias asks, both curious and surprised. "The Fifth Garrison has no business in the Citadel. What are you doing here?" Despite his words, there is warmth in Inias' cadence, and Castiel lets his Grace pulse outwards in welcome, pleased when he feels his brother's Grace do the same.

Fluttering his wings, Castiel keeps his tone steady. "I have been arrested," he says, and Inias jits.

"What? Surely a mistake was made?" Inias protests, and Castiel cannot help but feel a shot of warm blue streak through his form in response. Inias' Grace tightens slightly, becoming protective. Every angel bonds more with one or two brothers or sisters; it is considered normal, and thus normal that they show an unusual amount of attachment. Despite that, Castiel is touched by Inias' kinship.

It is with that in mind that he flickers black feathers against royal blue, inviting Inias to join him. "She is speaking with Sarakiel at this very moment," he informs his blue-winged brother, and Inias' form glitters with dark green. "Wait with me in the foyer, brother."

"Of course," Inias replies, and Castiel pauses as his bitter tone. They fly in silence to the foyer, tips of their wings brushing occasionally, and Castiel wonders if his brother's bitterness is really directed towards Sarakiel.


	6. FORGIVE ME

Before we go on into this rant/apology/request/warning thing, I have to say this:  
_I am truly, truly sorry for what you are about to read.  
_

I'm sure that most of you have watched the most recent SPN episode (E22S08) _Clip Show_.

Before I go on, allow me to clarify something; this is not a shot-in-the-dark, write-as-we-go story. I have many outstanding plots already sorted out, both for before, during, and after the Apocalypse. I have a Purgatory plot, a couple of demon! plots - I know exactly what I'm doing with the characters, who lives, who dies, when, where, and how. I have backstories and lore up the wazoo.  
This is not just a fancy.

I don't know how it happened. I honestly don't. But in one fell swoop, _Clip Show_ destroyed every plotline that I (and Twin) own. I cannot use any of them without directly violating canon anymore - something which I refuse to do. I write fanfiction because I love the show and I love the characters - I won't abuse and disrespect them by ignoring their canon.

All my demon plots, my angel plots - Naomi, tablets, Adam, Nephilim - everything is in total ruins. Legions of characters, scores of plotlines, thousands of years worth of lore and backstory, all of it just **vapourised**.  
I'm sure you will understand that I'm flickering between rage and despair at the moment. I love my characters and my plotlines, but I _do not want_ to write them any longer, because I _do not want_ to violate canon.

As far as I can make out, I have three options. The first and easiest is to simply walk away - delete this fic and never think of it again outside of nightmares and depressing ice cream binges. I'm sure, though, that you guys don't want that.  
My second option is to put everything on indefinite hiatus until we can contrive some new plotlines to replace all the ones that got melted into oblivion. Personally, I'm not so keen on this option; it's not that I don't think the characters are worth it, but they developed in line with the plots they were a part of, and to replace all the plots will feel **contrived, **it will feel really unnatural. (Or, if I'm better than my massive ego suggests, only a little unnatural). And I don't want that to be the experience you get from reading my writing.  
Finally, I can drop all my plots, run this quickly into the Apocalypse and then kill everybody. Lucifer wins, everybody dies, the planet burns, Adam becomes his right-hand demon, the end. That's the alternative I'm seriously considering (even though real-life Mimír and Catina have been trying to talk me out of it), but I won't pursue it if you guys don't want it.

Here's the request part: what I do is up to you. If you'd rather I just walked away and began something else, I will. I have an AU! idea lined up. If you'd like me to put a real ending to this, I'll go with the Doomsday scenario. If enough of you truly want me to take the time out and redo all my plots and lore, etc. then I will sit down with my Twin and we will hash this out - though it may take some time.

Thank you very much for your time. Forgive me.

**EDIT:** The decision has been made. After a lot of thinking and persuasion and coercion (-hehe-) I have decided that I will instead creep my way around canon in such a way that my plots only violate it if you look at it from the wrong angle.  
You can all thank Clockwork Silver, aLoggedInReader and Molly-Myles (you know, my wonderufl Beta?) for their particular pushing for me to do it. Right now. Go thank them.

A note or two: Yes, I have changed my penname. And yes, I will still be posting the Apocalypse scenario under The Red Dawn, listed as an alternative sequel to this fic.


	7. Fracture

**Hello again my dears. In case you're confused right now, skip back to the previous 'chapter' briefly and read the edit at the bottom of the page. For those of you who are too lazy -yess-I'm-looking-at-you- the basic idea is that this will go ahead, and so will the Red Dawn.**

**THANK YOU, all the loves and thanks and yeses to my wonderful Beta Molly-Myles, without whom none of you would be reading this. So make sure you haul your asses to her pae and show the loves we're giving her, or so help me Chuck.**

**Have I mentioned I kinda love Catina? Have I mentioned that I adore Inias like nobody's business...?**

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 15:12 28****th**** December, 2007**

Despite the slight discomfort that accompanied the feeling, Sam made no move to stop Catina from reading over his shoulder, leaning against his back lightly. It was as if she _wanted_ to lean on him, but was afraid her weight might be too much – or that he might not like it.

"Catina Song, right?" he reaffirmed, sparing the girl a glance. No doubt it was strange, her story, and so after exchanging stories with Bobby (and forcing him to accept the small Christmas present they'd bought him), Sam had agreed to help her look for her identity. After all, a bit of hacking was easy enough, and he didn't really like the sad little lost expression that came over her face whenever it was brought up.

He might not know her, but Bobby trusted her. That was good enough for him. And good enough for Dean, too, apparently – every now and then they caught snatches of raised voices upstairs. It seemed that already, Sam's brother had taken to trying to convince Bobby that a teenage girl shouldn't be trained as a Hunter. Personally, Sam couldn't see the big problem; for starters, both he and Dean had started their 'training' at ages far younger than hers. Also, she was in the world now. It was better that she learn how to defend herself.

Although, according to Bobby, she already knew practically everything she needed to.

"Yes, that's it, Sam," she replied softly, her breath tickling his hair. "Can I ask… what's your last name?" Catina asked curiously, her voice full of innocence. For a split second, Sam considered telling her that no, she couldn't ask, but then his logic caught up with his instincts and said that impulse was stupid.

Chuckling slightly as he tapped away at the keyboard, Sam nodded. "Sure – the name's Winchester." For a split second there was no reaction, and then Catina gave a sort of reverse gasp, freezing against Sam's shoulder. Then, all at once, she finally relaxed and snaked her arms around Sam's neck, giving him a tight hug. It set him on edge, because he didn't know her, but she was just hugging him.

"Thank you," she whispered, garnering a raised eyebrow from the young Hunter. For what, sharing his last name? He knew she liked names already, surely she hadn't expected him to say no? Her tone spoke of more than that – a deep gratitude that he honestly couldn't account for.

With nothing to say to that, Sam waited a few minutes while he opened half a dozen promising tabs and started his work. Then, he figured he may as well ask. "Is it true?" he began, glancing sideways at her again – now she was leaning on him comfortably, not that he really minded. She was just a kid, it probably comforted her. And if he was honest, he liked the non-hostile, no-strings-attached contact.

When she hummed, he continued his question. "Is it true that you know everything about the supernatural?" She started to smile brightly, and giggled.

"Yes, it's true. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But it doesn't matter – I'm meant to know it," she told him, her voice bubbly but deadly serious. "I'm _supposed_ to help you save the world." Save the world? Surprise took Sam away from his work, and he twisted slightly to look at her levelly. Noticing his disbelief, she just smiled at him softly. "You'll understand, Sam. The Winchesters are… Well, I know about them—you two. You're important. You'll save the world."

Confusion filled Sam, and he stared at her silently for a few moments, because _there was that phrase again_. 'Save the world.' What did that even mean?

Catina prodded him, seemingly oblivious to his reaction. "Are we going to look?" she asked pleadingly. "I want… I would really like to know who I am, Mr Winchester."

"Just- Just Sam," he blurted, turning back to the screen. He didn't know how to react to the news that he would apparently save the planet – so he decided to move on. File it away, bring it up later. After all, he didn't know her very well, he was helping her on the basis that Bobby trusted her. Maybe, once he knew her better… maybe then he'd return to the frankly mind-boggling subject.

…How could he save the world? He was broken… _demonic_. He couldn't even save his own brother.

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

In the time since they have arrived in the foyer, Inias has said nothing. His royal blue wings occasionally twitch, brushing Castiel's – his Grace is unpredictable, flaring in what Castiel assumes is discontent one moment, curling protectively around Castiel's the next. Out of respect for his brother, Castiel has of yet said nothing either, not wishing to break Inias' silence. However, he is starting to worry; Inias' form is flashing in a strobe-light rainbow, too many emotions streaking through him to make coherent sense.

"I am certain all will be well, Inias," he murmurs, hovering slightly closer, mingling their Graces together to show him that he is alright. "Sorath will not allow my arrest to go without complaint."

Inias turns deep purple, almost indigo. Returning the embrace of Castiel's Grace, he presses a wing to one of Castiel's black ones and Castiel jits slightly, unable to help himself. Sorath has healed much of the damage, but the pressure Inias exerts sends a flicker of pain through him. Instantly, before Castiel can protest, Inias flits around him and traces Grace over Castiel's feathers; it is too much to hope for that he missed the flare of red in Castiel's form.

"I am sorry, Castiel," he blurts quietly. It is one of the many reasons Castiel bonded so easily with Inias – he is quiet in nature, unobtrusive. "I did not hurt you, did I?" Worry, anxiety even, colours Inias' voice, flowering in his form in shades of grey and white.

The starlight of Castiel's true form flickers, and fills with pale pink. "No," he replies a little sharply, shuffling his wings. "…No, you did not. My wings are… sensitive." Inias studies his brother, Grace pulsing, probing, sending little waves of healing intent rippling through Castiel's inky feathers. For a while they stay like that, simply observing each other – and then suddenly, without warning, Inias' Grace cracks like thunder and his form (like coloured ink spiralling in water) explodes into shades of red and orange.

Wings flaring and snapping, Castiel hears rare anger in Inias' voice. It is not terrifying, as Sorath's, but cold and quiet; it does not inspire the same Grace-quivering fear as Castiel's Lieutenant, but a dark green flower of dream blooms in Castiel's form. "Sarakiel… he… Did he…" Inias falters, and moves closer, a million colours filling his form, blue wings riffling. "They… enhanced your interrogation," he states flatly.

"…" When Castiel does not reply, Inias fills with deep red.

"He didn't… You weren't subject to _forced flow_, were you?" Quiet as ever, very cold, Castiel does not know how Inias will react if he says yes, but he refuses to lie to him. Turning in on himself, ashamed for some absurd reason he does not understand, Castiel twitches his wings in the affirmative. "Sarakiel won't get away with it," Inias vows, and here Castiel feels the need to correct him.

Tentatively merging their Graces once more, Castiel says, "It was not Sarakiel. Mathius… questioned me regarding Aquila. Eniquiel hovered guard," he is compelled to add after a moment, and Inias shows a stripe of light green surprise.

"You said Sorath is confronting Sarakiel."

"Sarakiel was ultimately the cause of my arrest," Castiel admits, knowing that Inias will react badly. He has never seen Inias ruffled like this, and he is not sure what he thinks. Part of him realises that he should calm his brother down somehow, but part of him is flattered that his mistreatment is the cause.

In any case, he does not get the chance to intervene. Another Grace slams into him, quickly followed by a second. It is only because Inias' Grace is so interwoven with his that they suffer nothing from the attack – they slight away, twirling on the spot. Across the foyer, hovering like two storm clouds, are Akantha and Ketriel; Ketriel is one of Sarakiel's Vassals, but Akantha is part of Inias' Garrison, under a different Captain.

"Akantha? What are you doing here?" Inias asks, flaring his wings defensively. "You were assigned to Jessiel," he accuses. Jessiel is Inias' Lieutenant; with the arrival of Aquila, in such an odd fashion, the Lieutenant of the Twenty-Third Garrison would no doubt have been sent to inform his Commander (Samael) and onwards to Raphael – the archangel who presides over that Garrison.

That Akantha is here, if that is her mission, is worrisome. It is obvious why Ketriel is here.

The latter flaps steel grey wings and hovers closer. "Castiel," she snarls. "So your Lieutenant cornered Sarakiel," she says, and her tone is like a verbal angelblade. "Did you really think that it would end there? She locked Mathius and Eniquiel away, and a formal complaint is being made. Did you think you would get away with that?"

Somehow, Castiel is not surprised that Ketriel is angry with him. She cannot afford to be angry with Sorath; the higher ranked angel could smite her in a moment. Castiel is only one rank above her, and he is a Captain less because of natural prowess with his Grace and more because he is nearly unmatched in close-quarters combat. His Garrison has always specialised in less-than-moral assignments – he cannot afford to be otherwise.

Ketriel is one of Sarakiel's most loyal – it is to be expected that Sorath's intervention and countermand of Sarakiel's orders has angered her. That she has sought Castiel out is no surprise. That she might attack him out of wing _is_, however – and she does, heedless of the other angels.

Castiel flares and flaps his wings in a matter of beats, dodging her hurled Grace with no elegance, but practical speed. "Think before you do this," he warns her, trying to stop her from initiating a fight. He is not at full strength, and it is likely she could defeat him if she is clever, but Inias is deceptively passive, and against them both she stands no chance. "Please, sister."

"You deserve your arrest!" she tells him, raising her voice. It echoes about the foyer, and beside him, Castiel feels Inias rise to the bait. "You tampered with the fledgling and now Sarakiel is paying for it!"

Castiel dodges another attack, trying to ignore the painful red of his still-damaged wings. "I have not gone near her, Ketriel," he disputes, tightening his Grace around himself like a shield. "There is no reason for her to know my name."

"But she does." Akantha finally speaks, making no move to stop either Ketriel or Inias. At her words, however, Inias deflates, Grace (poised for a counterattack) shrinking back on himself. "And Raphael has decided you are to be held accountable until we know why."

Everything goes still in the foyer for a moment, even Ketriel. An archangel's order is not to be taken lightly, and that Raphael has ordered Castiel apprehended… Inias dares not complain about that. Castiel flies slowly downwards, until he rests just above the floor, and lowers his wings in submission, relaxing his Grace. "Then I will be happy to remain in a cell for questioning. But I have not imprinted the fledgling. That is the truth."

Akantha's white wings shuffle indifferently, and she slides forward slightly. "That is not for me to decide."

Before she can bind Castiel, however, Ketriel shrees in triumph. "Try getting Sorath to free you now!" she crows, bursting with bright yellow. Castiel accepts that silently, knowing there is little point to defying her, but there is a flash of Grace and a keening sound and suddenly he feels pain. His Grace is ripping, like he has been struck by lightning, and wordless cries ring throughout the Citadel, torn from him.

Ketriel has punctured his Grace with hers; not unlike forced flow, the technique is a combat manoeuvre, rather than a torture device. She moves in swiftly, taking advantage of the fact that Castiel has puddled on the floor. Inias moves to intercept her, but he stops for a reason unknown to Castiel. Just like that, Ketriel is upon him, and she attacks him with Grace charged with electricity. It skates across his wings, biting his Grace and, under that, his true form, and he cries out again.

He is accustomed to pain, but it never stops him from screaming.

White feathers flurry and a brief scuffle ends Castiel's torment, ending with Akantha pinning Ketriel to a wall. Her hands-that-are-not-hands are extended towards the enraged Vassal, her Grace overpowering the steel-wings. Ketriel is struggling, but to no avail; Akantha is easily Captain material, but she has never shown an interest in promotion. She reminds Castiel of Sorath in a way – it was only after Anna's disappearance and she was offered the position of Lieutenant that she even considered the job.

"Inias, please escort Ketriel to cell fourteen. Sarakiel and Sorath are currently being held there for misconduct. I will ensure Castiel arrives at his." Akantha speaks calmly, and though he is filled with stony ice blue, Inias riffs his assent and moves to Ketriel, binding her Grace with his own. She is not of Garrison Twenty-Three, and so she cannot fight it; the ability to bind another's Grace in that manner is something afforded only to those angels. "Will you follow willingly?" The question is asked without inflection, so Castiel simply riffs his wings and makes himself small, falling into line behind Akantha without a word.

It is the last he sees of Inias for a long time.

When they arrive at cell eighty-two, Castiel slips past Akantha and acquaints himself with the room before turning around. "Akantha?" he begins, and the white-wings pauses for a moment, her form perfectly clear save for her natural white and silver spots. "Do you know how Aquila knows my name?"

For a moment there is silence, and then Akantha sighs, a small star of lavender appearing in her. "No, Castiel, I do not. I believe you are not at fault, though." With those final words of comfort, she slides the door shut, and Castiel senses the touch of Grace that seals it.

And he is left alone.


	8. Grace

**A'ight my bitches- er, I mean my fledglings. I promise we're starting to get to the juicier parts... (of course you know by now that this is a super-long-term project that will run all the way up to and beyond current canon, so...) Anyway, we're starting to get to some actual plot - mostly just killing time until the Apocalypse shit starts, but also important to character relations and whatnot... Yeah, not the _most_ exciting, but I love character details and lore and stuff, so... suck it up I guess.**

**But I still love you!**

**Actually, here's something: I need OCs. Just for background stuff, but if any of you have some OCs you'd like to share with me for the purposes of background story and drama, please go ahead. You will, of course, get full credit - angel-related OCs are my most desperate case, but other OCs will be undoubtedly useful too. =^.^=**

**Give a great big thanks to Molly-Myles who somehow magically found time to Beta this piece of work. Right now! Go show her the loves.**

**I realise I haven't done a dedication in a while, so... this one is dedicated to: Sorath, for being such a motherfucking BAMF. That's right. I'm dedicating this to my own character. (Careful, Quil, your Tony Stark is showing. =P)**

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 10:28 29****th**** December 2007**

The moment came when he was sitting outside, alone, on the hood of his shiny black Baby. Sammy was inside, probably still on his laptop; having no luck yesterday, he was looking again for any hints as to who the girl (_Catina_, his memory supplied) actually was. _Bobby_ was in there as well, sulking or something while he read some dusty old books on whatever.

Dean absolutely wasn't sulking. He was just sitting on his car, enjoying a beer and the sunshine. The early-morning alcohol had nothing to do with the fact that he had argued himself stupid.

Ungritting his teeth long enough to take a long draught of the cheap beer, Dean turned his thoughts inward, trying not to think about how dumb they were all being. Was he the only one who saw it? How could they let this young girl – a _kid_, who looked like she'd never been in a fight in her damn life, who stood shy and awkward wherever she went – become like them? This was no life for a thing like her. No life for a kid.

So then _how_ could Bobby and Sam both be totally fine with it?

"Dean?" came a voice that was still unfamiliar; soft and much higher-pitched than he was used to hearing. It might have reminded him of Jo, if it'd had a bit more spirit. "Are you ok out here?"

She came closer, bronze skin hidden under the much-too-loose folds of her borrowed attire, her arms folded over her chest. There was that posture again – it was obvious just in the way she stood, she wasn't strong enough to be a Hunter.

"I'm fine," he grunted, looking away and out over the scrapyard. "What are you doing out here?"

She shrugged, stepping up to the edge of the Impala like she wanted to join him on her hood, but didn't dare to. "I guess… I guess I wanted to talk to you." She met his hard stare, and for the first time he saw a hint of steel in her; she didn't look away, just stared back, unblinking. With a sigh, Dean indicated she should sit down, and she carefully jumped up and sat by him. The car bounced a couple of times under Catina's sudden weight, but not nearly as much as she might have had Sam been the one to sit down.

Silently, Dean offered her a beer. Presumably, this was about her: she was shy, but she'd shown no indication that she was stupid, and his argument with Bobby had been loud enough to hear all the way in Sioux Falls. If she was old enough to want to become a Hunter, she was old enough to drink.

"You don't want me to become a Hunter." She delivered her opening in as even a voice she could manage, though Dean could hear a little tremor of nervousness. Nevertheless, she took the proffered bottle, and there was no shaking in her hands as she examined it for a few moments and then tried to pop the top off.

Dean almost immediately took it back from her, showed her how to open it, and gave it back sans the cap. "No," he affirmed. "This life… it's not a good life, not for a kid. You think you want it, but you don't. It's brutal and it's bloody and people die." He took a swig. Swallowed.

Catina took a tentative sip of the bitter liquid, tasting it. For a moment she looked contemplative, and then she stuck her tongue out, grimacing. She didn't put it down though. "What else can I do? If Sam can't find me… I don't have an identity, Dean," she reasoned, looking down at her bottle. There was a little crease between her eyebrows, and Dean suddenly understood why Sam wanted to help her so much; there was something intrinsically _wrong_ with the lost expression the teenager was wearing. This time, she took a gulp of beer, swallowing it effortlessly despite the face she once again pulled. "Besides, I already know all about the monsters. All you need to teach me is how to handle the tools of trade." A humourous tone now, the flash of a little smile. "Mr Singer can teach me how to use guns and stuff… But I'd really appreciate it if… if you'd teach me how to _really_ hunt, Dean."

"No. Absolutely not." It wasn't even that Dean necessarily didn't want to – the words were blurted and said long before he considered what she'd asked of him. Beer, swallow. "Look, kid. We can get you an identity, you can live with some people who won't have you risking your neck every day. You can have a _life_, don't you understand?"

With a quiet _tap_, Catina set the half-full beer bottle on the Impala's hood. Hands twined together in her lap, she took a slow breath and then she looked up at Dean and held his gaze. "Don't _you_?" she countered. "This is the life that I _want_ – I want to help people and kill bad things. I already know all the lore, I know all the tricks. Recorded an exorcism on my phone so they can't stop me by choking me. I already memorised it before you got here. I'm not an idiot, Dean, I know that the second I get on the monsters' radar that it won't end pretty. But it can end not-pretty years and years from now."

"You have the chance for it to end good," Dean muttered. "You can make friends, get married, have a family. I'm not gonna help you throw all that away." Gulp, swallow.

This time, Catina wouldn't look at him when she spoke, but there was a definite note of irritation in her voice. "Why do you think that I can't do both? And even if I wanted to get married and go live that white picket fence stuff, how could I? Knowing what's out there, how could I just forget? I want you to teach me, Dean, but if you won't I'll find someone else."

If he'd been arguing with anyone else, it was at this point that they would have walked away, fed up with Dean Winchester. But Catina just sat silently, staring at the low clouds hanging on the horizon. After a few minutes, there was a low clink that told Dean she'd picked up her beer again. And eventually, when Dean had set his empty bottle down and was contemplating leaning over for a second, she spoke again.

"You'll get out of Hell, you know."

_What?_ He spun to face her, eyes burning with his glare, but she just looked down and sipped at her drink without looking up. "_How did you know about that_?" he hissed, demanding. Nobody was meant to know about that. Only Bobby and Sam. If they'd told her, God help them.

"The same way I know that you and Sam are immune to demon possession because of your tattoos. I have all the knowledge about monsters in my head, Dean. The Winchester boys are up there too." The way she said it wasn't defensive – it was almost sad. Like she didn't _want_ to compare them to monsters. "Angels as well," Catina added.

Now he just snorted. "Angels don't exist," he muttered, flicking the cap off his second beer of the day.

"Yes they—whatever," she cut across herself, as if she'd argued this point before. While she swallowed her beer and grimaced at the taste, Dean shot her a glance.

He wasn't sure he believed her. How could she just _know_ everything? It didn't make sense. And it especially didn't make sense that _he_ was up there; Sam either. "Alright," he said, deciding to test her, "if you know everything then what was the name of Sam's werewolf?" Pain flickered in his chest, because the memory was anything but pleasant – but it was something that even Bobby didn't know, what had happened with that werewolf, and Sam never would have told Catina about it.

She didn't even seem offended that he was testing her. She just looked at him for a long time with big, sad eyes, shining deep brown in the watery winter sunlight. Eventually, she sighed and looked down, sorrowful little frown in place. "Madison." The name was like a punch to the gut. The ease of her reply only made it worse. "She-" Catina's voice broke for a moment, and Dean was stunned to see her body quiver. "Sam and her… well, and then you found out you couldn't cure her and she asked Sam to kill her."

Pain flooded Dean's emotions, not in the least because she'd added unnecessary exposition; she knew all that which meant she wasn't lying. She really did somehow know about them. The pain wasn't strictly speaking _his_ – and it was so much easier to focus on than his one-way ticket downstairs. Catina bringing _that_ up wasn't really high on his want-to-do list. But it didn't lessen it any.

"He did, too. Shot her with a silver bullet. Even though you offered to do it. And he cried. He cried _so much_…" There was new, powerful emotion in Catina's voice, a torrent of sadness that was stronger than what she'd shown him before. Watching her, mouth slightly open, denial chasing horror in his head, Dean was shocked to see the trickle of tears down her face. "And you did too," she added, looking up at him suddenly. "He doesn't know. But you did too."

Dean looked away. Gulp, swallow, draught, swallow. "Enough," he snapped, voice low as he fought down all of his reactions. "I believe you."

After a moment, when he was sure he had himself under control, he looked back at her. Glaring. Quickly, Catina swiped at her face, smudging the tears that still lingered there, sucked down the last of her beer, and met his gaze. "You _will_ get out of Hell," she promised him. "I know you're scared, Dean. But you'll be ok. You really will. I just… _know_."

He decided to ignore the comment about fear. Even if he denied it, he knew she wouldn't believe him, but he refused to acknowledge it either. Dean Winchester didn't get _scared_. Instead, he grunted. Swill, swallow. "Nobody gets out of Hell," he countered lowly, freezing up when Catina touched his shoulder lightly.

"John did."

And she slipped off the hood, walking away with empty beer bottle in hand. Off to see Sam, no doubt, or to bother Bobby. Dean stared after her, alcohol forgotten, alone on the hood of his Baby in the wintery sunlight of very late morning.

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 12:06 29****th**** December 2007**

It had been _obvious_ what she'd gone out there to do; there was nothing she could have been doing other than talking to Dean, and the empty bottle of beer she'd carried back in with her only furthered Bobby's belief. And _obviously_ it had been about her being a Hunter, because there had been the last vestiges of tears on her face and Dean still hadn't come in yet, but he hadn't driven off either.

Bobby was _expecting_ the tentative sip of his whisky, recently stolen by Catina's nimble hands. He was _expecting_ the sour-faced reaction to the alcohol, and he was _expecting_ the gentle way Sam prodded her for information about what she'd said to his brother.

What Bobby Singer was _not_ expecting were the first words out of Dean's mouth when he finally (all his beer drank) stormed into the house and stalked up to Catina.

"Alright, then – _how_? If you're so sure, tell me _how_." His eyes were glittering icy green, his anger and his pronunciation untouched by the alcohol in his system. Initially, Catina flinched, and Bobby prepared a scolding for him (she was just a kid, for frig's sake), but he hesitated when she sighed and stepped closer to the elder Winchester, closing the gap between them.

She leaned closer, turned her head to the side so that she could whisper to him, but Bobby had sharp ears. "I don't know," she told him. "I'm not psychic. But you will – you have to. Without you, Sam will fail." Dean was hesitating, his expression torn between rage and confusion, and Catina took the chance to whisper again, even quieter than before: "_Angels are watching over you._"

The boy-Hunter's patience snapped and he spun on his heel, knocking Catina backwards several steps. Announcing (or grumbling barely audibly, it was essentially the same thing for Dean) that he wouldn't be back till late, he stormed out of the house. This time, Bobby heard the roar of the Impala's engine and knew that he was going _out_.

Turning to give Catina an accusatory look, Bobby paused briefly, seeing a glazed shine leaving her eyes, but then she looked at him with a sheepish, almost hurt look and he sighed. "I don't know what's goin' on in that head o' yours, girl, but stay away from upsetting that boy." Bad things happened to people who upset Dean.

Across the room, Sam had stopped working, and he was staring at them, having heard only snatches of the exchange. But he knew (he just _knew_) that whatever it was, it was to do with what Catina had said before, about him saving the world.

He filed it all away, because he couldn't talk about it now, because none of it made sense and none of them would be any help. But it settled there, in his mind, stagnating.

He couldn't save the world. _He'd condemned his own brother._

* * *

**Sacramento, California. 14:12 1****st**** January 2008**

One glimpse. She'd gotten one glimpse of her Hunter. One was enough, though – she'd been sitting outside, talking to one of the Winchesters. Beer in hand – Dean must have gotten to her. Mimír chuckled to herself just thinking about it; the elder Winchester teaching her Hunter how to drink.

The Trickster swished her hand through the air, and a giant umbrella appeared in her fingers, shielding her from the rain as it started to fall. It wasn't cold here (in this place that held so many false memories), just wet. But she didn't really want to end up walking around in wet jeans; that was one of the least comfortable things ever. Sure, her long leather trenchcoat would have protected her black skivvy from the rain, but then wet leather wasn't the best either.

Mimír started to sing under her breath as she walked, trying to decide what she wanted to eat right now. _…Once I rose above the noise and confusion…_ She still hadn't mastered the art of replicating Loki's most-expensive-lollipop, but perhaps some sherbet ice cream or something. The thought was surprisingly delicious.

Of course, she'd always been a fan of pasta, but now she disregarded the idea. Sure, she _could_ make pasta appear out of thin air, but it just didn't appeal to her. Instead, she looked around, singing softly, looking for a library. _…Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion…_

There! Quickly, Mimír headed for the ornate double doors, adorned with Corinthian columns, shaking out her umbrella once she was under their cover. She didn't yet go inside, but she stood where the rain couldn't reach her and contemplated her umbrella. With a single shake, she sent a ripple of power through it, transforming it as it went. Soon enough, she was left with prongs of hard candy, connected by shiny membranes of colourful gummy. Munching on her umbrella, Mimír entered the building and headed straight for the horror section, intent on finding one particular series.

…_Well I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high…_

She was nibbling as she prowled the isles, reading titles as she went, occasionally pulling a book from its place to read a blurb. Eventually, making sure nobody was looking, she flicked her fingers downwards and a large bag appeared around her neck, hanging over her shoulders and to her side. As she went, she filled it with books that looked interesting, wondering when she'd get time to actually read them. _…Though my eyes could see…_

Her umbrella dropped to the ground, slightly sticky, as pain broke out in her right shoulder. It skated over her pale skin, like a hot vice that clamped down tight and crushed both flesh and bone. A squeak left her, and she dropped to her knees, the candy umbrella melting into oblivion.

"What—?" she gasped, looking up and around for anything that might be causing it. As a Trickster, Mimír had no idea what she might or might not be immune to, or the effects other supernatural beings would have on her. Was this one of them? But she could see nothing around her, just shelves and shelves of books and comfy chairs tucked away in unlikely places.

* * *

**Sacramento, California. 17:43 1****st**** January 2008.**

Here, the darkness pervaded like an inky ocean, filling each crevice and devouring every room. The hallways drowned in it, shadows lapping at the walls like waves. Only small holes, tiny islands of light, broke the sea of darkness, spilling outwards from the little candle flames. It was through these puddles of candlelight that the figure hurried, hardly daring to breathe.

"Master!" was the whisper that it carried before it, searching for others, for the one who ruled them. Soon, very soon, it was joined by another figure – thinner, lither, small as it raced at the acolyte's side on four agile paws.

When they burst into the main room, glowing with candle-filled chandeliers, casting reflections from the glittering diamonds that hung around them, it was as if they had stumbled across the city of Atlantis, rare and shocking in the middle of the black sea. The cat, the grey Siamese fur pointed with black tips that were almost violet, stared up at the woman who stood in the middle of the room; or rather, he stared at the lazy snow leopard who lounged on the cool, marble floor next to her, blue eyes meeting vivid gold.

"Neil," the woman said slowly, radiant in the splendour of her crimson gown. Auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders, hiding the sides of her heart-shaped face, leaving brilliant copper eyes to glint in the light of a million candles. "What news do you bring me, dear?"

Neil took his time to bow, barely accustomed to the beauty of the archmage. Not even a fully-fledged witch, Neil had been the rare and lucky acolyte she had chosen as her own, and an even greater stroke of luck had led his familiar, the elegant violet-point Siamese beside him, to select him so early. "I-I felt it, Master," he stammered, straightening up. "What the Washington coven told us of. The inhibitor seal they placed on _her_."

Now he had her full attention, and the archmage stepped closer to him, a smile beginning to light up her face. Ryn, the snow leopard familiar at her side, got to her paws and stalked towards Pix. The smaller feline familiar shifted on his paws, but Neil took the moment to glance downwards, sending comforting vibrations through their telepathic link. Tail touching Neil's leg, Pix settled and watched Ryn closely.

"Allow the familiars to discuss what they know," the archmage ordered softly, taking Neil's arm. "Us witches can never understand what goes on in their heads," she laughed, the sound genuine and warm like fresh honey. "Come along, acolyte. We shall break for coffee. Tell me… had it already been activated?"

Neil shook his head, sending a mental farewell to Pix before following his Master happily. "No. My magic was the first to touch it," he added, wondering about the significance of it. "I don't think she's a witch," he added. "I know not all of us have familiars, but I couldn't feel any magic when the seal activated…"

She led him up the massive double staircase, back into the waves of shadows, passing through the ink as if it were her home. Perhaps it was. "Come, now, we will discuss it all over coffee."


	9. Honour

**What's this? Another update? No, I kid, it's been way too long. But here is the next chapter of Dawn! I feel so sorry for my angels, for cereal. But srsly, Catina - HOW. HOW DID YOU DO THAT.**

**Eternal gratitude to my wonderful Beta, Molly-Myles, whom you shall all love - and go read the next installment in her Stars!verse, Road to Nowhere. Unless you haven't read the first one, Wandering Stars. And then you shall go read that. (And no, this is me shamelessly whoring up my Beta for no good reason other than she's amazing. ^.^)**

**Dedicated to Clockwork Silver just cause I feel like it.**

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

They are like living gargoyles, pulsing colour and shedding light as they hover so still, each with a wing spread in front of the door like a feathered gate. Nakir hovers to the right, her lightning yellow wing at the forefront of their gate, her true form full of pale blue that blurs into bright green. She says little to her companion, choosing to fulfil the task Jeyt (her Captain) has set her in almost full silence.

Akriel, however, throbs a deep purple, his corn silk feathers hidden behind Nakir's. He is here, hovering to the left of the door, because Hezekiah has demanded it; insisted that his Garrison, the Thirtieth Garrison (of which Sarakiel is a part), be represented in the guardianship of Aquila – of the fledgling _they_ retrieved. He speaks often, commenting on the mistreatment of his Garrisonmates. Nakir endures the complaints because, really, she is just thankful that Akriel flies under a different Captain. She cannot imagine how irritating he would become if he'd been _Flockmates_ with the imprisoned angels.

It feels strange, hovering so still for so long, one wing arched before the entrance to the fledgling's cell, the other tucked up behind her scintillating form. Soon she knows she will need to stretch, trade places with Akriel, swap her wings over. But for now, she watches another angel of the Twenty-Third Garrison pass by, silently warning him not to ask questions.

The injured Grace emanating from the room they guard is all too obvious. Those who sense it know what it is they are feeling – that freezing ripple of power that flakes from tortured angels like memories from a soul. And nobody knows Aquila's Grace – there are none who have encountered it before.

"It's all _her_ fault," Akriel grumbles, though there is more bitterness than anger in his voice. More mutterings follow, but Nakir ceases to pay attention; Akriel is not actually angry with the fledgling, but his routine has been ruined and he needs somebody to blame. (Whether he is complaining about Aquila or Sorath, Nakir doesn't know – and doesn't care to).

Finally, some form of reprieve arrives in the shape of Ranath, a Vassal who flies under Stormael – another Captain of Jessiel's Garrison. "Nakir," he greets her, tipping the arc of his primaries respectfully; and rightly deserved, too, for tolerating Akriel for so long a time. "Stormael sent me to relieve you."

Soft purple floods Nakir's form, relief filling her at the prospect of getting away from guard duty. However, Ranath is one of her own, one of the Twenty-Third – she cannot let him fly in blind. "Try to disregard Akriel," she warns him softly, stretching out both wings. They shiver, half-phantasmal, easing the stiffness of her long vigil. "He is… unpleasant at present." Ranath shuffles his wings in acknowledgment, silently thanking her for the warning, and he moves to take her place, one champagne-coloured wing extending to complete the gate.

For a moment, a new Grace touches Nakir's awareness. She recognises the angel, faintly, but Akriel looks towards the other Grace eagerly, and the Vassal surmises that it is one of his Garrisonmates. There is a moment of worry, a star of frigid white in her form, but she dismisses it a moment later. She is not on guard duty anymore – it is not her responsibility. Ranath will handle it.

"I bid you well, brother," she says quietly, turning away from the fledgling's cell and guards. Even as she leaves, she can hear Akriel's complaints once more, though perhaps they hold a slightly stronger fervour than before…

It is odd, she muses, that he should sound so pleased when he speaks of such discontent. She is far enough away now, though, that she cannot hear the other Vassal's words – and though it is borderline blasphemous, she hopes there will come a day that she will never have to listen to Akriel again.

Graces flare behind her. It is not the gentle tide of greeting and dismissing, or that of conversation; it is the solar flare of open combat, and a touch of Ranath's Grace reaches her, seeking help. Almost without consideration, she turns on the spot and returns to her Garrisonmate, but the fighting Grace has already died down. By the time she reaches him, not a moment later, Ranath has puddled on the floor, and his pale wings are dashed against the wall, oozing pale silver.

Behind him, the door to Aquila's cell is shut, bolted and sealed with a dollop of Akriel's Grace.

"Akriel!" Nakir warns, striking the door with all her considerable strength. "Open the door, Akriel!" she demands, frustration tinging her form with sickly orange. "I will bring Jessiel into this if you don't!" It is a slight exaggeration on her part – she does not know how to unseal Grace-locked doors. Nakir is only a Vassal, and though the sealing technique is one of many that all angels are taught, only Captains and higher have the authority to forcefully release it. She need only have Stormael or even Jeyt intervene – but she will go to their Lieutenant if she must.

There is a tap from the other side. "I'm sorry, Nakir," Akriel's voice says. "This is the only way."

Nakir turns a metallic shade of black, seething as she hovers. She is not angry at the disobedience so much as she is fed up with Akriel's self-righteous attitude – it is something of a trademark amongst the Thirtieth Garrison, and it is only now that Nakir realises why Jessiel tries to prevent contact with them as much as possible.

Returning to Ranath, Nakir sends up a bolt of Grace, dripping with her irritation. It is a summon, one of seventy-seven unique bolts. This one belongs to the Twenty-Third Garrison, and if Jessiel and any Captains are nearby, they will respond.

In the meantime, Nakir drifts low, riffing her wings, and tries to heal as much of the damage inflicted to Ranath as possible. From inside Aquila's cell, the two Graces throb, Akriel's alongside the other Grace that Nakir should have known better than to ignore. Now Ranath has paid the price for her arrogance – and behind the sealed door, a shriek rises in the scintillating true voice that Nakir has never heard before. She curses to herself quietly, ignoring the burn of the oath against her from, and decides that she will have the two angels who are once again torturing the fledgling punished.

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

For a long time, there is silence.

Eventually, she had stopped fighting the pain overwhelming her senses, allowing the much older angel with the emerald wings to take all the sick delight he wished. There had been an unmeasured length of time when she had fought – not because she was unwilling to tell him what he wanted, but because she didn't know, and he had not believed her. At first, she'd rebelled against the unrighteous punishment, muffled her cries as much as she could, held herself as still as possible.

She'd given in after he broke her crystal in half, after he'd wrapped hands-that-are-not-hands around the thick joints of her wings and twisted sharply. Already tattered from the stripping and snapping of glassy feathers, already beaded with the silver ooze like liquid starlight that bled from the wounded angel's true form, the fragmenting line of crystal that had created her leading edge had abolished the last of her fight.

The angel with the emerald wings had known what he was doing. She had no doubt that he could have created a clean break if he'd wished – but he hadn't. Grinding the shattered crystal under his strength, he had allowed the remaining shards to pierce wing and Grace, had let sparkling dust spiral down through her feathers.

When still she had no answers to give him, or at the very least the answers he'd sought, the emerald-wings had repeated the process on her other wing.

Then the other angel had arrived. The one who was alight like the sun – the burning star she'd caught only a glimpse of, only once. Her wings had glittered brilliant orange, ignited under her furious Grace, and the now-broken fledgling had known that, in one form or another, here at last was her salvation.

Now, she hovers close to the floor of her cell, saying nothing, thinking nothing, throbbing with the pain of her splintered wings. They extend outwards on either side of her; feathers (torn and bent) litter the hard marble floor. It is almost mocking, how even in the prison cells of the Citadel, the floors are carved from wintry marble, the walls lined with gold filigree. She stays there, barely an inch above the floor, her form folded, her senses closed; just before the large middle joint of each wing, jagged points of crystal carve their own little rivers of liquid starlight, glittering in the sourceless white light like icebergs, twisting her wings off in unnatural arcs.

She cannot hide from the light that fills the Citadel. She is weak and on display for all to see – a broken angel with broken wings.

And for a long time, there is silence.

She can feel the two angels who hover guard outside her cell, sense their Graces (one buzzing lowly, like a quiet electrical current; the other thin and sharp, like a frostbitten blade). She cannot hear voices, but she knows they are there. The knowledge does not elicit fear, but neither does it give her hope. They are there and she is here, and nobody is hurting her right now. That is all that matters.

Unmoving, silent, she waits. Waits for more pain, or for relief. Waits for the questions she cannot answer and the accusations she does not understand. She had been charged with the crime of imprinting. Though she does not know what that means, she knows that it is what has condemned Castiel alongside her – Castiel, who she has never met; Castiel, whose name holds hope and fury where it settles in her Grace. Castiel, whose name makes her overwhelmingly sad.

But she does not know who he is or even why she cares. All she can say is that she does. It has been proven to her, many times, that the answer is utterly insufficient. Silent and unmoving, she waits, listening to the Graces outside her door, trying to dismiss the agony stagnating in her wings.

A new Grace approaches, and she wonders if it will stay. It is soft, almost caressing the Graces it touches, and she takes comfort when she feels it settle in place. The Grace it replaces, the low one that gently vibrates, moves away, until she can barely sense it. And everything unwinds and is still and silent once more.

All at once, noise erupts outside her cell, Graces explode and burn, and she hears the dull _thud_ of an angel hitting the wall. The new Grace, the tender one, goes suddenly dim. There is a third Grace, and then another, all spinning around her. Sick green pools low in her form, spreading tendrils outwards like decay. There is a flash of noise, a burst of the ice-blade Grace, and she registers that she is no longer alone.

Two Graces hover in her cell with her. One is unmistakable – the Grace who has hovered outside her door for so long, since the angel with the emerald wings was taken away by the angel like the sun, the cold Grace like a knife. The other she does not know, and it boils quietly to itself.

Aquila lifts her form, opening all of her senses, and stares at the two older angels blankly.

They both watch her move, taking note of the muddy brown dread threading its way through the green decay, following the line of neon scarlet pain. Aquila says nothing, just waits. If they hurt her she will scream, just as she had given over her screams to the emerald-wings. The first angel slips closer, riffling corn silk wings, folding down to almost her level.

"Greetings, Aquila," he says softly, his voice light with something she does not know. It is almost like being sad, but also like the boredom the angel with the emerald wings showed her before he cast her wings to ruin. "My name is Akriel." And now he pauses, a small cloud of pale grey floating through his form. "I really am sorry. It wasn't your fault, what happened to you."

The other angel cuts in, her wings a deep indigo, form bubbling with mixed reds and purples. When she speaks, Aquila can hear Heaven's Wrath in her voice, and she looks down. "I am Idris," she introduces herself. "You have been lying to a Captain of the Host," she accuses, her voice even and dispassionate. There is something… an undercurrent that Aquila can feel more in Idris' Grace than hear in her voice, something which is exhilarated. And Aquila can only think that it is logical for Akriel to have chosen her as his companion; he does not seem to have the same steel the angel with the emerald wings has, or the fire of this one with indigo feathers. He does not seem like he is capable of effective torture.

"I do not know anything," the fledgling protests anyway, hearing her voice fall flat.

Idris jits her wings, a low ringing pealing from her form for a few brief moments. She does not believe Aquila's words, and they have made her angry. Waving his companion back a little, Akriel approaches the fledgling and touches her. "But you do," he tells her gently. "There is only one way for you to have known Castiel before being formally sworn. And he imprinted you, didn't he?"

Akriel's voice is quiet, even kind – but there is an iciness in it that makes Aquila revaluate him. Now, despite the sweetness with which he speaks, she suspects he is perfectly capable. Of anything he desires.

"No," Aquila dutifully replies, staring at the floor and the slicks of liquid starlight. She wonders, just to herself, whether all angels bleed starlight. But she dares not ask. "I have never met Castiel."

She is not supposed to volunteer information. Idris moves forward, slights around Akriel with the speed of thought, and her hot Grace rakes over Aquila's frayed wings. Without resistance, Aquila recoils and lets out a piercing howl. Akriel hovers close to the floor, forcing Aquila to look at him, and baby blue sadness radiates through him, only partially managing to mask the oily yellow of Idris' satisfaction.

"I am so sorry, Aquila," he repeats. "What Castiel did wasn't your fault. I promise, you will not be punished for his crimes. You cannot help it if he decided to imprint you. All you have to do is tell us the truth. Then we can _all_ go back to normal and all of this will be over." Aquila feels his Grace fluttering as he speaks, his soft voice becoming almost frightening.

She cannot look away, so she closes her senses, electing not to see him, barely hearing their demands. "He has done no such thing," she insists. "I have never met him. I don't _know_ how I know his name." There is a note of desperation in her voice now; she had resigned herself to more pain, but now that it has arrived, she wishes nothing more than for it to go away again. "I don't know. I don't know. I just woke up on Earth – I don't know!" She says it over and over again, the same thing she's been saying since her interrogation began.

They do not believe her. Of course. She knows better than to expect anything more from the other angels by now – they say Castiel has imprinted her, and her denials are treated as uncooperative. But it is worse than Akriel's true voice ringing quietly in the background, the sense of regret that emanates from his Grace or the glee blushing from Idris.

Aquila does not know what happened when she awoke on Earth. She cannot remember anything beyond her own pain, and she believes she would remember Castiel. But maybe she doesn't. There must be a reason for the other angels' insistence. Maybe they know things she does not. Maybe they are right.

Maybe he _did _imprint her.

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 10:48 3****rd**** January 2008**

"Don't!—_Don't_ ever look down the barrel," Bobby blurted out, a twisted combination of panic and relief. Turning the small pistol downwards, letting the barrel aim at the ground by her feet, Catina shot her mentor a sheepish glance. The black .380 ACP had just misfired, the recoil sending shockwaves up the girl's arm but causing no damage to her target. It was only natural that she move to look down the barrel, an attempt to see what the problem was; but it was a reaction that could cause her to accidentally shoot herself between the eyes.

Shit happened.

"Sorry," she muttered, brown eyes following the aim of her borrowed pistol to the ground. Bobby rubbed the back of his head for a moment, and then tapped the girl on the shoulder.

"You remember how to strip it?" he asked gruffly, leaning against the railing of his back deck. "Take it apart an' see what the problem is." Quietly, Catina sat down and began to follow his order, removing the magazine and starting a very slow field strip. Halfway through, something caught, and Bobby winced at the harsh grind of metal on metal. "Whoa, whoa," he stopped her, holding his hand out for the gun. "Like this."

For the next half hour, they sat on his deck and practiced stripping the gun down, working steadily on timing. It didn't take long for Catina to master the technique, though she was slow. Reloading was something that would have to wait until after lunch. "Hit that orange," Bobby instructed, pointing towards the only fruit on his sad little orange tree.

It was honestly a miracle that the thing had survived all these years, after Karen's death. It had been hers – a hobby that Bobby had never taken interest in. Perhaps he ought to now.

Both hands on the gun, Catina frowned as she took careful, slow aim. Then she paused and checked the safety. "Um… is that… off?" she asked him quietly, presenting the side of the Micromax for Bobby's inspection.

Silently, Bobby reached over and flicked the safety from _on_ to _off_, and motioned for her to continue. She cursed under her breath while she took aim again, and Bobby couldn't help the amused smirk that lit upon his face. She'd developed quite the taste for expletives, not to mention beer. It was almost as if she was a Hunter already.

She fired off a shot, and the orange exploded into wet slime. For a second, Catina just stared at it in shock, and then she jumped on one foot, throwing both hands into the air – disregarding the loaded firearm still in her grip.

"Yes! I did it – I fucking hit the thing!" she hollered, grinning ear to ear. That was the extent of her celebration; before Bobby could scold her and take his handgun back, her trigger-finger slipped and the automatically chambered round shot up to the corrugated iron covering and ricocheted. All positive emotion was struck from her face, and the teenager ducked down with her hands over her head, dropping the gun. Bobby ducked as well, praying that nobody got hit with a rogue bullet because of youthful exuberance.

That would be just his luck, to die because of an accidental ricochet.

But nobody died, and with the sound of splintering wood, the bullet buried itself in the railing of the mini-porch. Bobby snatched up the gun and flicked the safety on, letting the muzzle dip downwards. "Jesus, girl, I told ya not to fuck around with a gun in ya hand!"

"Sorry," Catina murmured demurely, her eyes latched on the raw wound in the wooden bar where the bullet had hit. "I didn't…"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. Come on in here and get some lunch. We can go over gun safety afterwards." As if she knew she deserved the biting comment, Catina nodded and led the way inside, hurrying into the kitchen before Bobby could stop her and insisting that he stay out. She'd fucked up, she said, so she'd make lunch.

There was no point in arguing, so Bobby strolled into his office/lounge/spare bedroom and sat down behind his desk, opening the biggest book to have ever been written. The poor furniture caved under its weight. Starting where he'd left off that morning, the old Hunter waited for his not-so-much-a-protégé to finish making… whatever it was that required that much noise. She had potential, that wasn't wrong, and her mysterious knowledge about everything supernatural was a huge advantage, even if it was suspicious and just the type of thing that made Hunters sleep with daggers under their pillows, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But hell, he'd seen better apprentices.

"Do you like sultanas?" came the call, and Bobby stopped reading. Eyebrows raised, he looked towards the kitchen and its shut doors and worried a little.

"_Why_ is that relevant?"

There was a beat of guilty silence, followed by, "Uh… Never mind! I don't like sultanas!" Bobby sighed to himself.

The boys had left not three days ago on a hunt. In the time they'd spent here, Sam had been able to find precisely squat on who Catina might be, Dean had managed to have every argument in the book with him, and they'd all impressed upon the kid a habit of drinking that would probably lead her to a lively career as a Hunter and an early grave. And while she'd tried to respect the elder Winchester, Catina had been ecstatic when he'd left and Bobby had announced he'd try her with a rifle the next day.

Rifles were big. They were hard to mishandle. But shit, the girl had managed it.

She was cooperative, and she learned fast, but Bobby had to wonder if maybe she was a bit simple. It took a special kind of dumb to set a junkyard on fire. Especially with no accelerants on hand.

Aside from the booze and swearing, the prospective Hunter had become enamoured with food. Since she apparently hadn't existed before she landed on Bobby's roof (something he _still_ hadn't figured out), she'd been trying anything and everything she could get her hands on. Hell if Bobby knew where she'd gotten sultanas of all things, but he _did_ know she'd thrown a handful in her mouth and spat them out again with the mother of all grimaces when she found she didn't like them.

No middle ground. That was what the kid was like. All extremes.

Bobby supposed he was just lucky she hadn't come across sex yet. If the examples above were anything to go by, she'd be as voracious as Dean. And that shit wasn't likely to end well.

"I made muffins!" Catina proudly announced thirty minutes later, walking into the main room with a bowl full of dark brown muffins that Bobby had to admit looked pretty good. She might not know what she liked, but he had to say – the girl knew how to cook.

Nevertheless, there was something to be said before he ate any of their 'lunch'. "Muffins ain't lunch food, Cat," Bobby said gruffly, but he reached out and took one when she was close enough anyway. It had been years since he'd eaten home-baked muffins – years since he'd eaten home-baked anything, since Karen. But he remembered that they were always best straight out of the oven. "And where did you get chocolate from?" he added, taking note of the half-melted chocolate buttons before he dug in.

Catina shrugged, smiling broadly when Bobby's face lit up with approval and he stacked three more on his desk. "It was in your cupboard. It smelled good, and tasted better, so I figured it'd make good muffins. I was right!" she added happily, plopping down on Bobby's couch and picked up a muffin of her own.

So it wasn't the healthiest lunch he'd ever eaten, but Bobby thoroughly enjoyed chocolate muffins that day. By the time they'd finished them off, they were cooling, and Catina was feeling too lazy to go outside and practice shooting. Instead, they sat in the warm lounge and went over handgun basics and safety, comfortable on the couch. Every now and then, Bobby would ask Catina about some supernatural creature or other, and he was satisfied enough by the invariably correct answers on what he did know to believe things she said that he didn't.

Even so, she'd be hard-pressed to convince him on the point of angels.

* * *

**Oh, Review.**


	10. Iniquity

**Welcome to yet another chapter of Dawn, my fledglings! Well, this is entirely devoted to case files - why yes, there is a Winchester case in this fic! I thought it prudent to put one in- ah, fuck it. I wanted a ghost case because I miss them, so I'm writing one. Live with it. Besides, the boys need to be doing something while I run through this month before the next episode happened.**

**Beta'd by the lovely and ever-increasingly brilliant Molly-Myles. I know I say this every time, but I mean it people. Her shit is awesome, read it.**

**Be sure to Review.**

* * *

**_San Diego Zoo, San Diego. 04:59 31_****_st_****_ December 2007 (past)_**

_James King wandered the colourfully bricked paths around the zoo, swinging a torch back and forth between enclosures. If it had been summer time, he would hardly have needed the extra light, but as it stood the sun wouldn't be rising for another two hours at least. He was modestly dressed in skinny jeans and a tight black t-shirt, inscribed with the slogan "Fuck Bitches – Make Money". It was hidden, though, under the overalls and jacket he was required to wear as the solitary nighttime keeper of the zoo._

_More often than not, the management pawned some punk onto him, allegedly to help him do nights, but this night they had failed. Internally, James had celebrated – it meant he would be able to skive off half his duties, plus he wouldn't have to tolerate an obnoxious little mouth-breather at the same time._

_It was a celebration he would come to regret._

_He wandered past the lion enclosure, snarling at the great felines and snickering to himself. So funny, was it, that such majestic beasts were akin to nothing just because some humans had decided they wanted to gawk. Besides, it wasn't as if the animals actually _did_ anything useful. Ever._

_As James approached the tiger enclosure, he walked close to the glass, poking his tongue out at the creatures within. There was a glint of yellow and a shock of fright went down James' spine – the eyes of the zoo's oldest big cat, Boully the tiger, stared at him through the glass._

"_You fucker," he snapped at that feline, glaring. He smacked the glass divide, making sure not to actually risk breaking it (despite that tigers could not), and threw the beam of light in Boully's face. "How old are you anyway?" he added, working himself up, talking shit to a tiger. There was little point in such activity, but James had been scared by the thing – _not scared, never scared, just taken off guard, that's all _– and he needed to psych himself up again. "I mean, you don't even show for the kids anymore, you useless piece of shit. Why they haven't put you down yet, I don't—"_

_His torchlight flickered._

_He slapped the device against his palm, muttering curses, and when it died James King very nearly broke the glass that was all that stood between him and the old tiger. The animal yawned, the action a strange mixture of adorable and menacing, and settled down to watch the spectacle. In the distance, the roar of a lion shook the air._

_James glanced towards it, but the lions were all in their pen – he was safe from the animals. They were all stupid things anyway. No way would James King ever fall prey to something like them._

"_James."_

_The voice was quiet, growling – James started and looked behind him, squinting through the darkness. It almost didn't sound human, though of course the sentiment was ridiculous. Only a human could have spoken to him. "Who's there?" he called, taking a few steps back the way he'd come, trying desperately to make out a figure._

"_Jamessssssss…"_

_This time, it was definitely not human. In fact, it almost sounded like… an animal. James pulled a sidearm and cocked it, scanning back and forth. It was the only benefit, he thought, of being tasked as night guard in addition to being an actual zookeeper. Carrying a firearm was the best feeling. It made him dangerous. It meant people had to _listen_. It gave him power. "I mean it," he snapped. "I'm armed and I will blow your ass away."_

_There was a rustle, and something screeched behind him, like nails on a blackboard. Or, more accurately, a sharp blade being dragged across thick glass._

_When James turned back around, he finally saw the figure. She was of average height, dressed in the nothing-special clothes of somebody sneaking around. James knew the look. He knew it well. Her hair was the darkest red, tied back in a neat ponytail, and in her hand she held a large knife, the blade thin and pointed. It was eerily similar to the knives that James used when he was on meat-duty for the carnivores, and she scratched it along the glass a second time._

_James backed away, eyes bugged, all bravado gone in that second. His torch rolled, rattling uselessly across the ground. Despite that her outline was fuzzy, and the details blurred, he could see her clearly. The piercing hazel of her eyes, the deep crimson of her hair._

_She was glowing._

_And behind her, watching all of this, eyeshine bright in the reflected light of the woman, was Boully. James could see the animal. See it right through her bloodstained chest._

"_Ghost…" he breathed, his terror fogging the air. Silently, she smiled at him – all teeth and cruelty. There was a harsh scraping sound, and a crack like a lightning strike, and with a burst of static her semi-transparent body flickered and vanished. James spun on the spot, intending to flee, animals be damned, and was met with the furious face of the ghost. She hissed at him, and a crackling sound, like the scratchy words of a badly tuned radio, burst out of her mouth._

_Far above, the dark sky of a city asleep observed with inky eyes, stretching tender hands towards the horror movie playing out below. It caressed James with Death's cool welcome, greedily drank his screams as they shot into the air. The knife rose and fell again, splintering ribs, punching through heart and lungs. James' screams turned to desperate gurgles, and then died altogether._

_For a while, there was a slight buzz in the air; knife sawing bone. Then, for a while, there was silence. When the first of the morning shift showed, all that remained was a body with an open chest and the faint sound of content munching from the lion enclosure._

* * *

**_San Diego Zoo, San Diego. 13:21 2_****_nd_****_ January 2008 (past)_**

_Truly, the only reason that Fiora LeBlanc had chosen to meet her children at a zoo was anonymity. She was a household name – a fat cat of corporation. And truly, if they were fat cats, then Fiora owned the catnip, because she was the fattest of them all. Of course, Irelia was welcome at her home at any time; welcome to go on tea dates or coffee runs. In fact, her high-profile criminal defence lawyer of a daughter often did stop by and offer little gifts; titbits of information or gossip. Things of importance in the world of the rich business. After all, things could fall apart so quickly if not kept in order._

_But Darius… Well, her failure of a rock star son was nothing less than shameful. It was bad enough that anybody with an ounce of intelligence could find out that she'd mothered such a person – there was no need to advertise the fact. That's not to say she didn't love her son, because she did. Obviously she did – if it were otherwise, she would hardly arrange meetings with him, now, would she?_

"_Mother," Irelia greeted her, taking Fiora's hands and pressing little air kisses to each cheek. "Are you well?"_

_Fiora smiled and returned the kisses. "Of course, darling. Tell me about your latest case? I saw something on the news." For the next few minutes, Irelia waxed poetic about her client, "Mr Carlos" – a foreigner who looked the part and had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. At least, that was Irelia's argument, and she was sticking to it. By the time she was through, there wouldn't be a jury in the world who would convict the poor innocent man. A man who had already far overspent his budget for his vacation to America, or so Irelia claimed, and would demand a handsome payout in compensation for punitive damages and all related costs of being forced into a trial in a foreign country._

_Irelia would, of course, get 40% in reward for her efforts._

"_Mother!" came a far more boisterous cry, and Fiora quickly composed her face as she turned to greet her son. Unlike her daughter, who was dressed neatly in a pale grey suit that politely complimented Fiora's steel black one, Darius was casually garbed in torn jeans and a tight, black long-sleeve. Fiora was only thankful that this shirt bore no offensive tags, but she could have gone without the long leather trench coat hanging from his shoulders. The chains that hung from the otherwise empty belt-loops on his jeans were entirely unnecessary._

_At least she expected the necklace and eyebrow piercing by now. They were two things that never changed about her son. That, and the black boots that made his every footstep _thud_._

_She might choose a zoo for anonymity, but Darius would stand out no matter where she chose to meet him. She could only hope that her dark Ray-Bans prevented her from being recognised._

_Darius rocked up to her and nearly lifted her off her delicately heeled feet – the man was twenty-nine going on seventeen, but he was six foot one and toned to match. "Hey, Ma," he said, his voice sunny. At the very least, Fiora could be satisfied with that Darius was _happy_ in his shame. "Can we walk and talk? They're feeding the orang-utans in a few." The singer's voice was deep, but it lacked any of the gravel that his tan and sandy blond hair lent credence to – in fact, it was unusually smooth; something enforced only by the silver sparkle in his light grey eyes._

"_If we must," Irelia answered for their mother, and Darius shot her a glare. Towards his sister was the only recorded direction in which Darius had ever shown hostility._

_He took Fiora's hand and led the way, starting to chatter about how his guitarist had traumatised half of last night's audience by pretending to choke in the presence of a cute waiter. Perhaps she should have, but for the life of her, Fiora couldn't remember if Darius' guitarist was gay or female. Maybe it was both? Well then why would a waiter excuse such an action? Fiora felt a headache coming on; accepting that her son was always going to be a failure was one thing, but trying to keep track of his band and their iniquitous lives was entirely impossible._

_Not to worry. Just like his brief tryst with classical rock, this new band was bound to be ephemeral._

_The orang-utans, as expected, were gruesomely boring creatures, their faces all squashed and fur orange. An animal of Ridiculous Proportions, just like those elephants or rhinos that everybody was always going on about. But Darius was euphoric in the presence of the primates, so Fiora stood silently by with her daughter hovering at her wing and allowed the boy his fun. It wasn't as if she actually had anything to talk to him about anyway, so letting him be thoroughly distracted for the duration of their quasi-annual meeting was for the best._

_How on earth it took nearly thirty minutes to feed these animals was beyond her, but Fiora chewed on expensive mints while she waited. It was actually somewhat pleasing, watching her son be so enraptured by the goings-on of the stupidly odd monkeys._

_Soon enough, Darius had tired of the orang-utans, and he dragged his family all around the zoo, cooing over small furry animals and aweing over the magnificent beasts. He loved the meerkats in particular, spending almost a full hour watching them dart to and fro in their sandy pen._

_And nobody noticed the trail of mint wrappers that Fiora left behind her. Normally she wouldn't stand for such mess, but there were people for that here – and besides, no harm ever came to anybody from a little bit of paper. At any rate, it was a much better alternative than allowing them to remain in her custom suit._

_Finally, they came to a stop at the restaurant that adorned the entrance to the establishment. Fiora waved her children inside, catching Darius' arm just long enough to hold him back half a minute longer. "Here," she said softly, passing an envelope into his nimble hands._

_A smile that could have blinded the sun bloomed on his face, and he veritably crushed Fiora in a trademark hug that smelled of hot leather and cheap soap. "Thanks, Ma," he whispered in her ear, and for just a moment, Fiora patted his back and smiled a little bit herself. If there was anything that Darius had an abundance of, it was cheer and gratitude. He may be a failure, but he was a kind failure. For all the importance that Fiora placed on standards, she recognised that Darius had his own. Sometimes she thought that perhaps he'd be good for her public image (a people's person in such a high-level job), but she knew that she'd lose face with her competitors and investors in a heartbeat._

_Now that she had presented Darius with his 'allowance' (a measly sum of $100,000), she smiled and pushed him inside to help Irelia claim a table. Her daughter was perfectly capable of claiming a table on her own, but Fiora was far more aware of the importance of PR than Irelia was, and no matter what else may happen, Darius was always better at people._

"_I'll be right in. You know what I like," she added, sending her son a polite little wave. Then, with all the elegance of someone who was Better, she turned and headed towards the small public toilets. At least the zoo kept them quite clean. Even the smell was bearable._

_It happened when she was washing the far-too-foamy soap from her skin. The water, which had been running and barely warm, turned bitingly cold in an instant. There was a hiss, like static, and Fiora took a slow breath, preparing herself for whoever had entered the little building. Fighting wasn't something she enjoyed, but Fiora LeBlanc was a master martial artist, and she was more than ready for a little 'self-defence'._

_Odd, though, that she hadn't heard the door open._

_Wish a rush of sound, all the locks slid home, shutting the ten meagre cubicles behind her, and sealing the entrance to the public toilets. The water, already cold enough to burn, stuttered. Groans emanated from the pipes and suddenly Fiora's hands were trapped in a miniature pillar of ice, stretching from the tap to the plughole. As dribbles of liquid seeped out around the ice, the plumbing moaned and then shrieked its protest, threatening to burst. Little sprays of water froze as they hit the air, rattling against the sink as they fell to the force of gravity._

_The mirror cracked. Then all the mirrors cracked, shards coming loose from their backing and smashing against their sinks and the ground. Fiora stared, horror-struck, at the fragmented image of her own face, trying vainly to tug her hands free of the ice. And then she saw it._

_In what remained of her mirror, off to the right of where she stood, there was a woman. Her face was perfectly white, cheekbones carved below her glittering eyes. Her hair, dark red, was pulled into a fine ponytail, not a strand out of place. Glowing, she stepped forward._

_For a moment, Fiora thought that it was a trick of the mirror, of the freezing cold creeping up her arms and into her mind. But when she twisted to look, there the woman was – ethereal, wraithlike as she stood with bloodstains turning her nondescript clothing dark, her chest ripped apart by what was either an ungodly number of stab wounds or the claws of that tiger the zoo had on display._

_Her hands, gripping a steak knife that was far too big for any piece of meat, hovered at the end of her wrists, bloody. Where they should connect seamlessly to her arms, there was a jagged gap. Only willpower kept them from falling to the floor; will, or telekinesis._

_Screams rose from the toilets for a single brief moment, and then everything went silent. The crowds stared at the last place Fiora LeBlanc was ever seen alive, gathering around, milling. Crowds are an uncertain creature. From inside, there was a faint humming, accompanied by the sound of sawing. And when it finally stopped, and the locks came free under the persistent hammering of the zoo security, it was replaced by the far-off sound of the contented munching of a happy lion._

_Not that anyone noticed._

* * *

**San Diego, California. 14:16 5****th**** January 2008. (present)**

The glance spared for Dean as he choked down the last of the awful beer was anything but pleased, but he ignored Sammy's displeasure in favour of burping, trying not to taste the dry swamp flavour the too-cheap alcohol had left him with.

"I can't believe that shit was a human," Dean complained, distracting himself from his brother's irritation. "I mean…" A short laugh escaped him, more of a scoff than anything else, and he repeated something he'd said many times before; "Monsters, I get. Humans are crazy." What the hell kind of human collected eyeballs from live 'specimens' and then sent the vics home? It was a wonder the psycho hadn't been caught yet – Dean had no doubt that they could have done it, but humans weren't in their jurisdiction. The moment he'd caught wind there was nothing supernatural going on, the Winchesters had bolted.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever." They continued like this for a while, in silence. Dean spent his time contemplating which diner he wanted to go to for a late lunch, stubbornly ignoring thoughts that either told him they should have solved the case, human or not, or that asked him what they were still doing in a crappy motel after noon since they weren't.

Sprawled out on his bed in a manner that was usually trademark of the elder Hunter, Sammy was reading this morning's newspaper.

"Hey, check this out," he said suddenly, slowly sitting up and honing in on an article. "A woman named Natalie Munroe was found murdered outside the lion enclosure in San Diego zoo yesterday."

Dean waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he raised his eyebrow at his brother. "And? Why is that our thing?"

For a moment, Sam kept reading, and then he met Dean's gaze. There was a strange mixture of trepidation and anticipation in his hazel eyes. "Because she was found with no hands, and she'd been stabbed thirty seven times in the chest. Her older sister Carmine was found six months ago, killed the same way. And the guy who did it? He took the death penalty three weeks ago."

Silence reigned for half a second before Dean surged to his feet. "Yep, that's our thing. Lucky we're already here, yeah?" he added, starting to grin. A good case was exactly what he needed – the evidence already pointed to a ghost. They'd have to see whether it was Carmine or the guy who killed her, but Dean felt that the original vic was a safe bet. Ghosts often killed in the same manner they died. The sibling connection was interesting though…

"Any more family?" he asked as he strode to the bathroom, already stripping off his outermost layer.

Sam shook his head. "I'll search up a list of murders in the last six months, see if anybody else died the same way," he offered, grabbing his laptop and flicking it open.

"You do that." Dean yanked open the door, went inside the bathroom and dragged it shut behind him, scowling when the sticky hinges caught for a few seconds. Shower time it was – he had to look good for his FBI suit, after all.

A new case, and a ghost at that – 90% of ghost cases were a simple salt and burn, so there was hardly any danger. Not comparatively, anyway. Dean almost hoped that this would turn out to be more complicated than it looked; the more brainpower required of him, the less time he had to contemplate the future. Both his own…

…and that of his little brother.


	11. Judge

**A'ight. So I temporarily dropped off the face of the Earth there. My bad. Fact is, I'm currently entrenched in sorting out the new course I'm about to start at UCOL, and I've got a bunch of other shit that I have to do that involves... ugh... official people. Anyway, in addition to that, I've recently begun background work on a Naruto fic that will be replacing my old idea 'the Angel Clan'. And, simultaneously, I've found myself utterly enthralled with the world of Darksiders and all the characters therein. There just isn't a single thing in that entire damn universe that I don't love or at least find eternally fascinating - I never tire of figuring out character quirks and doing character study and exploration and watching as their interactions expand and the lore ideas just flow into- well, I'm sure you all know the kind of thing I'm talking about. I mean, you are reading fanfiction, after all.**

**Anyway, that's what's been going on with me, my bitches, so I am sorry about my random death. Or you can be fledglings, if you'd prefer. In any case, I'm sorry that this has taken somewhat a backseat to all that, but I'll at least try to do some more work on it. This AND Sky - although I can't make any promises. You wouldn't BELIEVE how OCD I've got about this Darksiders thing - seriously, I've legit rewritten the Prologue at least four times, and I don't even plan to start publishing this until I've finished writing it in its entirety. For OCD reasons.**

**Seriously. I'm insane.**

**Now, so I don't keep you for too much longer, please send all the love to Molly-Myles for Betaing this (all that time ago XD) and a shoutout to her and nicitta for putting up with my ghostly-ness - since I've done practically nothing for them even though I'm meant to be their Beta and be, like, actually talking to them. -.- Yep, somebody slap me. Kyoki! USE THE ULTIMATE TECHNIQUE.**

**Give them the loves, enjoy this chapter, and for the sake of all things holy and chocolatey, Review. It might motivate me. -.-**

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

Or perhaps he is to be her justice. She cannot see him, for even if she wanted to she does not know if she could open her senses anymore, but his Grace scorches her own with all the power of the sun – of the millions of souls she felt when she was born. It seems there is no limit to the Grace of this angel. This _archangel_. She has not heard the term, does not know where it came from, but the knowledge that standing before her is an archangel is undeniable nonetheless.

Though her senses are closed, and though her wings are crippled beyond recognition, every crystal feather snapped or plucked out, Aquila slowly uncoils, like a cloud bank. The colour has been washed from her form, blotting out almost all her starlight, leaving her a blank mass of slate grey. Shining silver liquid paints the marble floor, sticks to the ephemeral hands of the Vassals interrogating her.

But she hears the archangel's voice. She hears it, clear and scalding, despite her resolve not to hear anything. It is dangerous to listen – she has already wavered, and she will not further condemn Castiel with her own disloyalty. (Why she feels so loyal to an angel she has never met (has she met him? No, she mustn't have) is something she still does not understand).

"Fools," the archangel says softly. He has not spoken before now – not a minute previously, he had melted the door with a blast of his overwhelming Grace, pale blue like a lightning strike, and everything had fallen silent. Every angel – the three in Aquila's cell and the four who had followed the archangel – had gone totally still. "Do you forget your place?"

Anger crackles around them, and Aquila realises that she has looked when she sees Akriel and Idris collapse on themselves, wings curling protectively around their forms. Crying out, they suffer the archangel's wrath for a few brief moments, Graces scorched by his. "None have the right to harm a fledgling!" the archangel pronounces, true voice ringing with power and the authority to use it. "None but _us_."

The plural clearly does not include anyone present, and Aquila thinks that there must be other archangels, other creatures who are somehow as majestic and terrifying as this one.

When the archangel approaches her, the other angels scatter, fearful of the consequences they might be met with. But quietly, the archangel (who has six wings of misty blue-black, swirling like storm clouds) addresses his four tag-alongs. "Escort them to cell one," he orders. "I will be along shortly."

And Aquila is left alone with the archangel.

He flies closer, using only two wings to do so, and hovers down, levelling himself with her. Awed and afraid though she most certainly is, Aquila does not have the strength to rise from the floor, or to show him the proper respect. Her wings will not move, even if she wills it. She is naught but pain and exhaustion, and even the brief flicker of fear has faded into the deep well of trauma.

"Dear fledgling," the archangel murmurs, and his voice is very low. It does not hurt her senses, raw though they are. His Grace, so dangerous, is soothing when it touches hers, flowing around her, numbing the pain of her injuries. "Your name is Aquila, is that correct?"

Feebly, Aquila sounds a muffled affirmative.

He reaches out to caress one of her broken wings, but this time Aquila doesn't flinch away. Not pre-emptively and not when he makes contact – though indignance and dread always had caused her to flinch before. He is an archangel. Entitled. His phantom hand slides along the exposed crystal, leaving strings of healing Grace behind. It is beyond even an archangel to heal her fully, as she is an angel, and particularly when the injuries have been dealt to her true form, but he is more capable than most to attempt it.

"My name is Raphael," he introduces himself, forcing Aquila to meet his gentle gaze. "I assure you, those who have done you wrong will be severely punished." After a pause, during which Raphael stares at her intently, a tiny spark of warm yellow flickers in his form and he answers her unasked question. "Yes, those who have done Castiel wrong will be punished also.

"However, I must get to the truth of this matter, before it goes any further." For a moment, Aquila feels a bolt of violet panic, but it fades as quickly as it had arrived, and she surrenders to her instinctual trust of this magnificent creature of limitless power. "I am only going to examine your mind."

Aquila settles, the storm-cloud grey of her form slowly starting to lighten into neutral white. It is still slightly tinged with grey, as the remnants of the pain that Raphael cannot quite erase still course through her, but she – for the first time – feels safe. Raphael will not hurt her. He is an archangel, almighty, and he will protect her as he protects all other obedient angels. For she has taken no action beyond allowing herself to be born.

Raphael enters her mind. It does not hurt, and though it might be uncomfortable Aquila counts it as bliss, this treatment that is so careful. He sweeps past her tortures, blurring their edges in her memory as he does, and searches for the moment she burst into life. When he finds it, he stays for a while, examining what she saw and felt, but there is no presence that Aquila has not already shared. No crimes yet committed. After a stretch of time, Raphael pushes back further, searching for anything beyond the moment she became aware of the stars above and the angels around her, and he finds naught but whiteness and three words.

Three words that resound in Aquila's head and escape in her true voice when they are hit upon. Three words that are sufficient for Raphael to slowly withdraw and rise up from the floor.

Words that read: _Save them… Castiel._

* * *

**San Diego, California. 16:50 5****th**** January 2008.**

"And you're sure that this Carmine chick was the first vic?"

"God, Dean, _yes_, ok? How many times are you gonna ask me that?" Sam rolled his eyes, returning his disgusted gaze to the laptop perched on his knees. So he was a little edgy – he had every right to be edgy. His brother was going to Hell, his life was shot to shitty little pieces, it was all his fault, and Dean wanted to take on a ghost hunt and pretend like nothing was wrong!

His emotions were always shifting like this. Initially, Sam had embraced the news, rallied all of his knowledge and considerable skills to find a way out of this deal. For days at a time, he'd done nothing but ignore Dean's cases (letting the elder Winchester go hunting on his own) and research.

But then the weeks had bled into months and worn on, and Dean showed no sign of reneging his demon deal. It was as if he didn't even _care_ that he was going to the worst place imaginable to endure endless cycles of whatever horrors humans went through that were capable of turning them into demons. For fuck's sake, Dean was in serious danger of actually becoming a demon – of becoming a thing Sam would have to hunt down! To make matters worse, Sam himself had demon blood. If Dean became a demon as well…

Sam closed his eyes, trying to push down his emotions. They'd been rocketing back and forth between rage and despair for weeks, ever since the eight month mark that had proven to him beyond a doubt that Dean had accepted he was heading Downstairs.

He probably thought he deserved eternity in the Basement, the fucker.

"Two previous vics," Sam began, forcing his voice into a low monotone. The words came out dead, but at least they didn't betray the havoc they were wreaking on his much-too-tight throat. "Both found the same way – hands sawn off, estimated thirty-plus stab wounds to the chest. Both found inside San Diego zoo. The local police force think that the missing hands were fed to one of the lions there. First one was James King. Second was Fiora LeBlanc."

Silently, Dean kept driving. If he noticed that Sam's voice sounded odd, he didn't comment. Sam didn't see the worried – nay, terrified – glance that Dean sent his way; he was reciting this from memory, mentally reading over the relevant articles while he talked, eyes still closed. Tense and stiff, his posture betrayed everything he was trying to hide, but he didn't know that Dean looked over, and he didn't see Dean read him.

With a soft sigh, Sam finally opened his eyes and stared out the passenger side window, watching the city stroll by. It was slow going to the zoo – the five o'clock traffic was just getting underway. (Of course, the zoo would be closed by the time they got there, but the FBI would be let in regardless. And it was better that civilians didn't see them snooping around).

The despair had won.

"King didn't have any family, but he did have a roommate – guy by the name of Riley Michaels." Voice soft now, weary under the weight of his depression.

Dean shot him another look, brief and sharp. "And the second vic?" After a moment that Sam let pass unbroken, wondering why Dean was bothering to teach him things, why he was bothering to withdraw when he clearly didn't care about what was happening, the younger Hunter looked down at his laptop screen.

"Two kids, both adults. Older one's a son, Darius. Younger's a daughter, Irelia. They were getting lunch, apparently, when Fiora was killed." It felt strange to Sam, discussing the death of a mother so casually, as if it didn't matter. But then, in the grand scheme, Sam supposed it didn't. What was one mother? Even if her adult kids had been right there – even if this Darius dude was apparently devastated? Thousands of people died every day. People died. Left family behind. Went to Heaven.

Went to Hell.

So then, in reality, what did any of it matter? Sam might as well indulge every one of his not-so-saintly urges whenever he wanted, consequences be damned. Dean didn't care what happened to him in Hell – why should Sam care any more about what went on on Earth?

A slap to the shoulder avulsed him of his thoughts. "You check out the kids? I got the roommate," Dean proposed. Sam just shrugged.

"Sure, whatever. Zoo first, though."

The Impala shot past the city limits, gaining speed, and Sam pretended to not see the anxious look Dean gave him as he took the zoo's turnoff (way too fast). He didn't even have to resist the temptation to tell Dean to keep his eyes on the road – it didn't matter, right?

"Cool," Dean affirmed in a strained voice, and the Impala's engine stuttered for half a moment as if even it could sense that the atmosphere was anything but cool. Dean's beloved car didn't seem too pleased with its passengers. Perhaps it could sense Sam's thoughts. With his head full of Hell, the young Hunter's mind had taken a dark turn, piecing together Hell and demons and the lack of things that mattered.

They both knew that Sam had demonic powers – the fact terrified Dean so much that he refused to talk about it, even when Sam had wanted to. (Of course, he'd never admit that it was because he was scared, but Sam knew the signs). And Dean didn't even know about Sam's brief moment of telekinesis.

When nothing mattered, Sam could just do what he wanted. And if nothing mattered, he could freely admit that he enjoyed the feeling of power that had awoken in him when he'd broken that first barrier. The psychic visions sucked, it was true, but that wasn't the only power that people like him were afforded – and what was there to say he couldn't access the other ones? Inhuman strength, telekinesis, mind control. The ability to kill with a single touch.

Since nothing mattered, it didn't matter if he admitted a peculiar lust for that power, like a small itch in his palms… But no. That wasn't quite true. Of all things, Sam knew that Dean still mattered. Dean would always matter.

But Dean would be in Hell and Sam would be alone. So then why shouldn't he indulge? Of course, if Sam could stop Dean from going to Hell, then things wouldn't _have_ to cease to matter. Dean was the only family Sam had left – the demons had taken everything else away from him. Mom, Jess, Dad. If he could, Sam would do anything to find a way to stop them from taking his brother too.

But his brother wasn't interested in finding a way. So if the demons took Dean, then why shouldn't Sam take a little back?

Once they had lied their way into the zoo (Agents Richardson and Maise), Sam tossed Dean the EMF scanner and motioned him towards the lion enclosure. "If the lion's eating their hands, the ghost has to go by there. See if you can track it. I'll go talk to the staff."

Readily agreeing, Dean hesitated a beat to study his younger brother before he left, flicking the device on and pulling out the antenna. After he had, Sam turned away and walked slowly through the quiet zoo, dialling a number on his phone that he had promised he wouldn't.

"_Sam. Didn't Dean forbid you from contacting me or something?_" she laughed, her voice low and dangerous. Forgetting that she couldn't see him, Sam shrugged.

"Hello, Ruby."

* * *

**Singer Salvage, South Dakota. 21:14 5****th**** January 2008**

Catina scowled, the expression odd on her soft face. "So you'll believe me when I say 'Knights of Hell', but you won't believe me when I say 'angels'? How can you _possibly_ believe in Hell and not Heaven?"

Bobby glanced at her from where he sat on the hood of a piece-of-shit car that he should have turned to scrap years ago, sipping his whisky. The pair of them were sitting side by side in the wintry night air, looking up at the stars. Personally, Bobby would rather have been inside with a hot mug of Irish coffee, reading his books, but since Catina had done an entire day's worth of driving lessons with only nominal complaints (and she loathed driving lessons with a surprising passion), he'd let her convince him to stargaze.

Now, normally Catina wouldn't go on like this (she'd been berating him for his lack of faith in the existence of angels for at least twenty minutes now), and normally Bobby wouldn't have been inclined to let her, but things had taken a turn for the nagging when she'd discovered a box of sealed shots.

At least, it _had_ been sealed. Now it was torn open and three of the little plastic shot glasses had their airtight covers ripped off and their contents drained. Catina was nothing if not completely drunk right now.

Bobby didn't envy her the hangover she'd have in the morning, especially since it was her first one – and especially since he had no plans to go easy with her training. Suppressing a smirk, Bobby sipped his liquor and let her rant on.

"I mean, what the fuck kind of logic is that? Fucking demons are perfectly normal, but the second I mention angels, you all turn into Patrick fucking Jane!" Raising an eyebrow, Bobby gave Catina a confused stare, wondering who Patrick Jane was. Unless it became relevant, the old Hunter wasn't really one to keep up to date with celebrities – or any kind of pop culture, really. Not the new stuff, at any rate. After a moment of dazed blinking, Catina ripped the cover off another shot, threw it back, grimaced, and added, "No, I have no idea who Patrick Jane is, so stop giving me that look right now."

Smirking now, Bobby looked out over the scrapyard, contemplating whether to hand her a dagger or work on her escape techniques first thing tomorrow. One deep breath later, Catina had started up again. "Do you honestly think that God would create Earth, Hell and Purgatory and just _forget_ Heaven? Seriously! And since I know you know that's bullshit, what the hell kind of thing do you _think_ lives in Heaven? The mythology is never that wrong, and you know it! _Angels_, Bobby! Angels!"

"There's Purgatory now?" was all Bobby said in reply, and Catina gave him a ruddy-faced glower, her eyes bright with hard liquor.

"This conversation isn't –_hic_– about that and you kn-_hic_-ow it."

Bobby grinned to himself, but he did reach over and take the eight remaining shots off her when she went for a fifth (and missed), ignoring her protests. "That's quite enough for you," he scolded her. "Ya ain't no Dean Winchester, I'll tell ya that."

Crossed arms and drunk pouting met this statement. "I was en-_hic_-joying those." Bobby chuckled, downing the last of his whisky, and then slid off the car, holding out a hand to help Catina down. She glared at him half-heartedly. "Only if you –_hic_– admit angels are real," she said, and hell if she didn't sound like a child.

Laughing again, Bobby took her hand anyway and pulled her off the car. She fell into step beside him, holding his arm for balance. There was a moment where she almost took them both down, stumbling over her own toes, but Bobby was prepared for that.

"Ya know, I ain't never said I don' believe in angels," he started once they were inside and he was depositing Catina on what was now her bed. Waiting for her understand that, he picked her feet up and took her shoes off. It had been quite a few years since he'd taken care of a drunk kid (the Winchesters hadn't been kids for a long time, despite that they were still boys), but he remembered the routine well enough.

Only after he'd turned her the right way around and stripped off her winter jacket did she reply. "Wait… Really?" she questioned him, brow furrowed.

Still amused, Bobby chuckled again and lay her down, pulling the blanket up over her body. "Yep. All I'm sayin' is that if angels are real, they sure as hell ain't walkin' amongst us anymore."

By the time Catina replied, Bobby had shut the light off, closed the door and gone downstairs to help himself to more whisky. And to hide the shots a lot better.

"Not yet."

* * *

**The Citadel, Heaven. Time Indeterminate.**

He is circling. In humans, it would be pacing – but he is not human, and he has no need for feet. For a while, his impatience has been festering. Gone is his nervousness; he is almost indignant at the treatment he's received, though he does not acknowledge this. Acknowledging this means he must protest, and Castiel knows that all will go better for him if he does not protest. Sorath with settle his case.

At any rate, the archangels are involved now. Just as they all had, Castiel had sensed Raphael's Grace the very moment he entered the Citadel. The archangels are so powerful that he is accustomed to feeling their presence hovering high above, in the places where average angels fear to tread, but now he is inside this very tower. Castiel can only guess at what he's doing.

A Grace makes itself known outside his cell door, and he pauses in his circling, evaluating the new presence. Surprise takes him closer, hovering just inches away from the door himself. "Cascade?" he asks, just loud enough to carry out to her. "The Seventy-Sixth Garrison is not permitted inside the Citadel," he says lowly. "How did you get in?"

"It _is_ you," she replies, and there is relish in her voice. "Castiel, of the Fifth Garrison. I didn't believe it when they said you'd been arrested." Confusion fills him with blue-grey for a moment, and then Castiel realises what is happening. Cascade has come to mock him. "I snuck in just to see if it was true," she told him, and the door hisses suddenly as she leans against it. Akantha's Gracelock fizzes and spits, rejecting the touch of Cascade's Grace, but the Captain ignores it. "And here you are. What did you get arrested for?"

Castiel suspects she already knows, so he says nothing, determined not to rise to this bait. He must be exemplary. It will only be worse for him if he is not. "Imprinting a fledgling," she sighs, almost giddily, when Castiel remains silent for too long. "Can you imagine the scandal out there? Sorath's – _the_ Sorath – Sorath's Second Captain, one of the best of the Fifth, _imprinting a fledgling_." Cascade is almost whispering now, and despite himself Castiel feels the burning white anger bubble in his form.

He moves away from the door, snapping his wings in an attempt to silently vent the reaction Cascade undoubtedly wants. Never has he actually held a conversation with that sister, but he knows them all by name and Cascade has always been spiteful. She unrelentingly obeys and enforces the law of Heaven herself, but Castiel knows she adores a scandal.

"Everybody's talking about you, Castiel," Cascade informs him, and now she sounds almost friendly, as if she is keeping him appraised at _his_ request. The white becomes tinged with blazing red, and then tinged with black. "I'm telling you, it's like the twelve hundred and fifty sixth heaven out there." _A simile._ It is unusual for an angel to use figurative language. Cascade had spent far too much time on Earth, before the trip down was forbidden. "And it's all because of you." It is unfamiliar to him, this feeling of rage. Castiel has been upset before, even angry, but never has another angel sought to incite his fury. Castiel is of the Fifth Garrison. Never before has another angel _dared_.

With his Grace quickening, spitting icy sparks in his anger, Castiel beats his wings, coiling his form. It is stormy red-black now, melting into his inky wings. He will not be drawn into a fight. _I refuse to be provoked into violence._ If it comes to that, Akantha's Gracelock will not be sufficient to prevent it, and Castiel knows he will win. Akantha is a Vassal, and Castiel knows that she placed it believing he would not try to break it.

And against him, Cascade does not have a prayer. There is good reason he is Sorath's second Captain, despite his average Grace. When it comes to combat with his blade, Castiel is nearly unmatched.

The thought makes him wonder why Cascade is doing this. Surely she understands what is happening? She must know that she cannot win against him.

"What's her name? Aquila, right? Wow, what is it about this fledgling that you couldn't resist?" Mocking, delivered in a tone that is both amused and faux-astonished. She laughs, high-pitched and pealing, and Akantha's Gracelock continues to sizzle. Crimson explodes in Castiel's form and he spins towards the door; he knows he should not, that he should ignore her jibes, but he has never experienced this feeling, this blazing shade of red, and he does not know how to control it.

With a bolt of Grace, he blasts apart the Gracelock on the door, knocking Cascade into the far wall. Her wings (foamy white-blue, like a waterfall) splay across the icy marble, and a short burst of surprise flickers pale yellow through her form. Then, with as much elegance as she can muster, she floats down to the floor, colouring pale pink.

In an instant, Castiel understands. She _intended_ to start this fight – she wants Castiel to attack her, to incriminate himself. There is no ill will in her fluttering Grace (the only thing that betrays her unease), but she loves a scandal, and his is too delicious to pass up. She is furthering his trouble. In the end, it must come out that he is innocent, but beating another Captain into starlight is certainly not beneficial to his case.

Hesitating, he tries to gather himself, to pull his form in from the expanding storm cloud of red and black fury. His wings jit outwards, and his pinions brush the ceiling, but he stops. Grace pulsing wildly, he glares at Cascade with all the venom he can muster. "I didn't imprint her. And you _know_ that. Why are you doing this?"

"You're so cute when you're angry," she coos, and Castiel forces his form to freeze. He cannot beat the Grace out of her, he cannot. He must not beat the Grace out of her, he must not. He cannot… "You know, Castiel… I was imprinted when I was a fledgling. Do you know what they did with the angel who did it?"

"I am certain you will enlighten me," Castiel grinds out, wings slighting.

Cascade comes closer, shivering dawn rose, and wraps her form around Castiel's as if they are lovers. His frozen colours crack. "Made him my plaything!" she crows, and strokes Castiel's not-a-face gently. "Imagine what a fledgling as fucked up as Aquila is now will do with _you_, sweetwings." Castiel flinches when she curses, the blaspheme a physical burn against their true forms, shattering whatever composure he has left. For a moment, they are bound together, the tangle of their forms chaining him to her, and then she finishes speaking and leans in to kiss him.

Their wingtips brush together and the endearment sears him like the curse had.

It is only when the screams fade from his hearing that Castiel starts to be able to see again, but it is not until the red haze has fully melted away that he stops hitting her. It had been Grace-to-Grace for a few brief seconds, during which Cascade had thought she might survive this encounter, and then Castiel had manifested his angelblade – not quite physical, here in Heaven, but closer to an expression of will capable of real harm; much like the angels themselves – and the starlight had bled from her like ice under a flame.

Castiel steps back from his carnage, and for a moment, he feels a belt of deep violet satisfaction fill him. Then he realises what has just happened, and sickly green swirls through him. Starlight splatters the walls and floors, clinging to his true form and his feathers. Accusing. Incriminating. Cascade is alive, but she has puddled on the floor with her wings pinned underneath her, painful (if she were awake to feel them), and her form is filled with neutral grey.

Snarled feathers litter the floor. In Castiel's wings, not a single one out of place.

When three Vassals of the Twenty-Third Garrison (since they are based in the Citadel itself) that Castiel knows but does not care to recognise arrive, he is hovering in the middle of his cell, regardless of the door that has been slagged. His form is deep grey, as if he is the top of a storm cloud and his wings are the bottom, furthest from sunlight.

The Vassals look between him and Cascade for a few minutes, gauging the situation, and then they leave the unfortunate bottom-ranked to hover guard by Castiel's cell, carrying the wounded Cascade with them.

Eventually, Castiel speaks.

"I am sorry, Ær," he says quietly, staring at the ground. He is still bound by the starlight he struck from Cascade's form, stretching over him in silver veins. There is no doubt that he is intimidating, especially to a younger Vassal, and particularly with his reputation. "I believe I suffered… a temporary loss of control."

Ær glances back at him before returning to vigilantly watching the hallway. "…She provoked you, did she not?" the violet-wings asks softly, shuffling as if unsure that she should be speaking to him. "I know Cascade; she sneaks in here a lot. Mainly to do what she just did… although I do not believe it has ever worked quite so… _well,_ before." Castiel understands this to mean that nobody has ever conquered her quite so soundly.

"I am sorry," he repeats. Right now, more than anything, he wishes that he could wash Cascade's starlight off himself. But that is a luxury he will not be afforded – he must wait until his Lieutenant arrives to deal with him. Of course, it is not Sorath that is causing the little blue star of fear to grow in his form.

No, that is the knowledge that with his Lieutenant will be his Archangel.


End file.
